


The Book Was Not For Sale

by Garrae



Category: Castle
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Books, Deception, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-04 15:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 48,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14023188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: He only needs to keep seeing her. To listen to her stories. He doesn't need to tell her about his missing book, because if he can only hear her brisk, uptown tones then the story is going to be there. He only needs to keep her near. AU, shortly before 1.1





	1. Chapter 1: Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted on FF.net.

“What am I bid for a signed set of Derrick Storm?”

Hands go up with alacrity, rings and bracelets sparkling and glinting: a bunch of Patek Philippes or Rolexes showing. Designer dresses swish about the floor, tuxedos smugly squire them. The smell of dollars scents the air. New York’s Richest have come out to play, and one of New York’s Finest is feeling distinctly inferior.

“Thousand and…. Fifty, hundred, two hundred, three – four-fifty. Come on, it’s for a good cause – six hundred – going – seven-fifty, eight…” And on, and on: the cash register clicking over faster than the rattle of a semi-automatic. The hammer had come down on the first set at fifteen hundred dollars. This one’s rapidly doing better.

She’d wanted a set. Just something, to connect her to her mother, honour the cause – AA: she has five years of reason to support AA. But there’s no way she can afford this. Cops in the NYPD don’t get paid anything like enough to bid in this company, and she’s too cautious to break into her savings. One never knows when or where the blow might fall. Oh, she knows that all too well. Her father had nearly broken under that blow, and only _her_ savings had kept her safe.

Detective Kate Beckett regards the excited crowd, splashing the cash with a will, a way, and very public generosity, and resigns herself to being a spectator at this party. So much for her fragile hopes. She stops listening, and finds a drink that doesn’t cost the equivalent of a Fifth Avenue penthouse or look like it was made by Technicolor.

Her attention is returned to the auctioneer with a jerk.

“Come on. Surely someone will bid on this? One copy of _Casino Royale_ , owned by one careful child.”

It’s something. A gesture. “Twenty-five.” Beckett raises her hand. “Twenty-five… thirty? Anyone for thirty – over there on the left.” Beckett waves again. “Thirty five… forty…. Fifty. Going once… going twice…gone.” The hammer falls, and Beckett realises she’s paid fifty dollars for a dog-eared copy of _Casino Royale_ , owned by some kid who’d probably scrawled in the margins and torn the pages. It’s not at all the same as having a signed copy of a Richard Castle book. Not at all. Still, she’s supported the cause, which is some consolation.

She goes up to pay, signs with a scrawl that couldn’t be read by a top notch graphologist, hands over fifty dollars in cash, and collects her book. It’s in surprisingly good condition, for something that’s obviously been read a million times. She skips past the name in the front, which means nothing: childish handwriting which she’d as soon wasn’t there at all.

She takes it home, reads it over a few days, noticing that there are indeed marginalia, in pencil and in the same childish handwriting of the title, and then tucks it into her bookshelves, where it slides to the back. Shortly, she’s forgotten about it.

She hasn’t forgotten that she didn’t get a single signed Richard Castle book, but she’s got a couple already: stood in interminable lines for them, and it’s not like the signature would make any difference to her life. It’s the story that matters. Mystery solved, bad guys caught and put away, good guys winning in the end. Some days, she’s really needed to know that good guys win in the end, simply to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Not so much, now. Never so much since her father got dry, and stayed dry. But sometimes. Still, sometimes.

Sometimes, she needs a little help to keep going.


	2. Chapter 2

“I can’t find it.”

“What can’t you find, darling?”

“My book.”

“What book?”

“Casino Royale?”

“I haven’t seen it in weeks. Isn’t it in your study? Or your bedroom?”

Martha ponders. Castle worries his fingernails, and keeps on frantically searching around the loft. “Where’s it _gone_?”

“Darling, does it really matter? You can get it in any bookstore. It’s a classic.”

“ _Yes_ , it matters.”

He doesn’t explain further: his mother won’t understand. It’s his luck. His original inspiration, and when he’s blocked it’s his go-to book to read and remember why he’s a writer at all. It’s never failed him. And now it’s gone. Ridiculous as it seems, he feels that he can’t write without it; without knowing that it’s benevolently watching him from the bookshelves.

Not that he can write just now anyway. He’s been blocked for weeks. Months. And now he’s lost his luck.

He returns to his study, and removes every book from the shelves, every paper from his desk, every drawer from its runners. He shifts every mechanical toy, every chair, the couch. The book is not there. He repeats in his bedroom. The book is not there.

The book is gone. _His_ book is gone.

He flumps down at his desk and mourns. Then he begins to wrack his brains; and when that fails wrings them. He cannot think what he's done with the book: he only knows that he has to get it back.

One positive occurs to him. His name is in it, in his ten-year old handwriting. _Richard Alexander Rodgers_. Of course, that’s also a negative. If his current name were in it, _Richard Edgar Castle_ , then there’d be the possibility that some fan would spot it: announce their prize on social media, and he’d pick it up. He could offer them many things, to give it back. Money, photo-opportunity, signed books: even a _date_ , if he had to. Anything, more or less.

He pours himself a medicinal tot of Scotch, and returns to his frantic wracking and wringing. Finally, a tiny treble bell rings at the very furthest reaches of his hearing. There had been a charity drive, and he’d donated three full boxes of full sets of signed Storm books. It’s possible – his heart quails – that he’d accidentally included _Casino Royale_.

Oh, _fuck_. Fuck fuck fuck. He’s _never_ going to find that. He can’t even remember what the charity was.

“Mother,” he calls. “Mother, do you remember that charity fundraiser?”

His mother bustles in. “Which one?”

“About a month ago.”

She frowns in concentration. “I can’t remember, darling. But I do remember you complaining that Gina and Paula dragooned you into donating to it, so I’m sure one of them will remind you.”

“Brilliant, Mother!” He hugs her hard. “I’ll call them right now.” He’s dialling before he’s finished his sentence.

“Paula, it’s Rick. Can you remember what that charity auction was, about a month ago, that I gave three boxes of books to?”

“Lemme think.”

Castle waits at least ten seconds. “Well?”

“Looking it up.”

“Yeah?”

“Gimme a chance, okay?” Castle can hear tapping, and with considerable effort controls himself. His fingers tap in counterpoint. “Right. It was a fundraiser for AA.”

“Who was the organiser?”

“Jenna Cournat. I’ll flick you her number. I guess she’ll be happy to talk to you. Don’t agree to anything without me okaying it. ‘Specially if she’s pretty.”

Castle babbles indignantly.

“I know you, Rick. Pretty girl bats her lashes and you’ll do anything.”

“Okay, we’re done, Paula.”

“Lemme know if you need anything else. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Ten minutes later his phone chirps with a number. He dials instantly.

“Jenna Cournat.” It’s an uptown accent, neatly clipped off.

“Ms Cournat,” he says suavely. “Rick Castle.”

“Hello, Mr Castle. Thank you so much for your recent donation. Very generous. We’ll do a lot of good with that money.”

“How much did you raise?”

“Over the evening, three hundred thousand dollars.”

“Impressive. It was about the auction I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

“Yes? Your books sold really well.”

“There was a book in there that shouldn’t have been. Not one of mine.”

“Yes? I don’t recall…”

“Casino Royale? A pretty old copy.”

Jenna Cournat thinks. Eventually, thinking comes to fruition. “Oh… yes. I remember. No-one bid on it” –

“Great. Can I get it back?”

“– except one woman. She paid fifty dollars for it. I think she was a bit frustrated she couldn’t get one of your books, but they all went for far more. Your signature really is a draw. Can I talk to you about the next one?”

“Talk to my agent,” Castle says quickly. “I’m sure she’ll be able to help. Now, this woman who bought the book, do you remember anything about her: her name, anything?”

“I’d need to check our records. Can I get back to you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Castle says, “that would be great.” Secretly, he’s seriously disappointed. “Thank you. And talk to Paula about the next time.”

“Thank you, Mr Castle. Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

Now what’s he going to do?

Half an hour later he has no more idea about what to do than he’d had when he put the phone down. He’s stared at his laptop, and had no more inspiration than he had three months ago. He can’t bear to edit the last Storm, though Gina is howling for his final amendments (and probably, by now, his blood. He’s not taking her calls any more).

Bored of his own four walls, and not at all willing to try to explain the unexplainable to his mother or Alexis, if she ever comes out of her homework heaven, he finds a jacket against the cool of the evening, and wanders out.

Wandering takes him up, down and around, but doesn’t bring him inspiration. Eventually, he tramps heavily down the stairs of the Old Haunt, which he hasn’t been to in – oh. Months. Well, actually, more like years – and buys himself a beer. Bottled. The place is looking a bit grimy, and there aren’t exactly a lot of customers.

Castle plonks himself down in the booth he used to like – when it was clean and someone occasionally replaced the burnt out electric bulbs in the lights – back in the day, sips at his beer without much enthusiasm and watches the world, or at least that portion of it which visits this now-dingy bar, go by.

The passing trade is not inspiring either. If he sat here all the time, he’d write nothing but noir, which is really not his scene. Still, it’s better than staring at his walls. Marginally better –

 _That_ is certainly better than staring at his walls. Oh, yes. _That_ more than makes up for the last two hours of wandering around pathetically miserable and then sitting here with mediocre beer and a bad case of the grumps. _That_ makes it all bearable.

That, he discerns, is a tall, slim woman, currently arranging herself in a very gloomy and probably grubby booth, some way from any other solitary drinker. Of course, there are only solitary drinkers in this bar, widely spaced out. She appears to have a whiskey in front of her, though, abominably, the glass also appears to contain ice. On the other hand, looking along the bar, that drink is a pretty cheap blend.

It dawns on Castle that anyone voluntarily drinking cheap blended Scotch with ice in it is probably not looking for delicate nuances in taste, nor are they seeking to savour the subtle flavour, but for oblivion, as fast as they can manage it. He’s intrigued. Oblivion frequently follows hard upon break-ups, and break-ups sometimes look for a rebound one-night-stand. He wouldn’t be averse to assisting. Not only has he had no inspiration for writing, he also hasn’t been with anyone interesting (anyone, in fact) in some time. Not for want of trying: but he’s bored of brainless bimbos (and himbos, but he wouldn’t want to sleep with them. He doesn’t swing both ways) and that’s all he’s met. In vaguely paranoid moments, he suspects Gina of ensuring there are no interesting women at the events Black Pawn arranges.

Might as well try it, he thinks. The worst that can happen is that he finds that she’s just another boring fangirl. Well, she could knock him back, of course, but that’s vanishingly rare. He waits a little longer, to ensure that no-one joins her – that would be embarrassing – drains his beer, saunters to the bar and orders another beer – he is not touching that blended abomination – and then wanders towards her.

“Hey,” he says.

She looks up, and his jaw drops. Even in poor light, she’s stunning. She’s also actively hostile.

“I don’t want company,” she says flatly, barely looking at him.

“I’ll leave you to yourself, then,” he says with a touch of irritation. She appears to notice.

“I’m not good company. If you’re looking for company, you won’t find it here.”

“Makes two of us,” Castle says. “I’m not good company either.” Certainly not if he’s going to be snipped at. Hasn’t she recognised him? In this light, though, he’d be hard pressed to recognise his agent, so maybe it’s not so surprising.

She shrugs. “Whatever.”

Castle, whose interest has now been piqued – which matches his pique at going unrecognised and being instantly knocked back – plants his beer on the table and his ass on the seat, a safe distance away from both the woman and her whisky. Unobtrusively, he’s watching her. Obtrusively, she’s ignoring him: staring into the whisky, watching the ice melt; staring at the smeared wooden table top and the floor. After a full five minutes of silence, she hasn’t taken a single sip.

“D’you want something a bit better?”

“Huh?” She looks at him in a way that strongly suggests that she’d entirely forgotten his existence.

“You’re not drinking it, so obviously you don’t like it. Do you want something better?”

“No. Thank you.” It’s said in a way which removes the possibility of conversation. Castle returns to sipping his beer and covertly watching. The woman returns to staring into the untouched whisky, long-fingered hands around the glass, careless of the condensation and the chill.

Beckett had come into this bar for several reasons: it is nowhere near the precinct; it wasn’t particularly visible from the street; it is extremely unlikely to contain anyone who knows her and, having arrived inside, it is, she decides, extremely unlikely to be busy at any stage. She buys a drink – cheap whisky: there’s a single malt in the display but she doesn’t want to drink, really, she just needs a reason not to leave – and sits in an unpleasantly grimy booth, staring at the drink without seeing it. It has not been a good day.

It’s never a good day when she has to shoot to kill.

All she can see in the amber whisky and melting ice is the dead perpetrator and the blood oozing through his shirt. So now there will be the usual investigation, reports, and three days desk duty, minimum, without her Glock. All because some lowlife dumbass thought that he’d rather point a gun at her and threaten to shoot, than come quietly.

And now some other dumbass is making a move. She doesn’t even bother looking up: simply snaps at him. It doesn’t work, and then she feels marginally guilty, which she shouldn’t because why should she put up with being disturbed when she wants to be left alone, and then he sits down. Hell. She goes back to her bleak thoughts and the whisky which she isn’t drinking.

He speaks again. She misses it entirely. She couldn’t have told anyone what this man looks like, because she – a trained observer – hasn’t even looked at his face. Whether she could have seen it in the dim light is another matter. He offers her a drink, and she declines. The only way the day could have got worse would have been if she were chatted up by a barfly, and she is being. Hell. Now if only he’d just take the hint. The whisky doesn’t give her any answers, though; and the dumb male sitting there just keeps sitting. Asshole.

Maybe not quite such an asshole. He’s not talking. He’s not trying to give her a come-on. He’s certainly not trying to feel her up – which is not unknown, at least till she turns round and gives those idiots a good view of her shield and gun, and then both barrels. So maybe not an asshole at all.

She flicks him a glance. Oddly, he looks faintly familiar, but she can’t place it in the poor light and honestly she really doesn’t care.

“What happened?”

Oh. He’s talking. She hunches her shoulders and stays silent.

“Look, it’s obvious something happened that’s upset you. Lemme buy you a drink you actually want to drink and tell me the story.”

She’s so surprised by the comment – barflies aren’t usually perceptive, and since he hadn’t taken the pretty clear hint to get lost she hadn’t exactly thought he was either – that she looks straight at him.

 _Oh, fuck_.

No wonder he’d looked faintly familiar. What the freaking hell is _Richard Castle_ doing in a dingy, grimy bar? Can’t he afford Nobu, or the Pegu Club, or something?

Hold on. Of course Richard Castle wouldn’t be in this downmarket, seedy bar. He’d be _in_ Nobu, or the Pegu Club, with half a dozen pretty women, flashing the cash and making a stir. She’s mistaken. She has to be mistaken.

“What’s your name?” falls out of her mouth.

She looks utterly shocked that she’s spoken. And suddenly Castle doesn’t want to reveal who he is. He doesn’t want to see the dawning look of avarice and avidity in her face: the draw of the celebrity. So he lies.

“Rick Rodgers,” he says, and something shifts in her eyes, to… relief, he thinks. That’s weird, but welcome.

“Kate,” she says. He doesn’t miss the lack of a surname, but doesn’t question it. He’s not here to listen to a life story, only to find out the immediate story. Life stories are generally boring, and he hates being bored. It won’t cure his block, either. Sitting here isn’t going to find his book. The terror of losing his luck worries at his gut again. “I don’t want a drink.” She stops. Not exactly chatty, this woman. He waits, not pushing anything: allowing, in her unexpected enquiry, an atmosphere of comrades-in-adversity to develop. Still she doesn’t speak.

“I lost something important today,” he offers up, eventually. He doesn’t say what. He’s not keen on being the butt of ridicule. “I can’t find it anywhere. So I came out, to try to get past it.”

She nods, almost sympathetically. “Sucks, to lose something important,” she says. There’s something in her face, her voice… but it’s gone too quickly to identify. Sounds as if she knows a little about loss, though.

There is another space, but this time it’s definitely warmer: almost, but not quite, friendly. Her hands clench around the glass. Bracing herself, he thinks.

“I shot someone, today.”

Castle’s mouth falls open.

“He’s dead.”

“But… how come… why aren’t you… Oh! You’re a cop. You must be.”

She stares at him, astounded. “How did you get that?”

“You’re not hiding, running, or in jail. Only one set of people get to shoot and not be arrested. But if you’re not a cop, you must be FBI. Or CIA. Or some agency no-one’s ever heard of…”

“Cop,” she cuts through his persiflage.

“I was right,” he bounces.

She regards him sardonically. “Cops aren’t exactly uncommon.”

Castle recovers himself. Cops may not be uncommon, but cops who look like they patrol the catwalk not the sidewalk certainly are uncommon. “That sucks,” he unconsciously repeats. “You okay?”

“Part of the job. If you have to take the shot, you take it.”

“But you don’t have to like it.”

“If you like shooting people, don’t be a cop. That’s not the job.”

“What is the job?”

“Solve the crime. Get justice for the victim.”

The note in her voice is unmistakable. Passion. A spark of non-sexual interest arrives in Castle’s brain. “So what happened today?”

“We got a tip-off” –

“Who’s we?”

“Me, Ryan and Esposito” – Castle doesn’t ask for more clarification. He’ll get that if he needs it, later. “So we got down to the warehouse and there was our killer” – _Killer_? Homicide? Spark turns to flame – “but he didn’t feel like doing the decent thing.” She pauses, and her lips pinch thinly. “It’s always a bit of a toss-up whether they surrender. He didn’t. He pulled a gun.” Another pause. “So I shot him,” she says coldly. “Before he shot me.”

She shudders in memory of the barrel pointing at her. No matter how often she experiences it, no matter the safety of her vest (which is, at best, partial), it’s frightening: in reality and in recent memory. It’s not the best bit of the job, by any means. Nor is watching him die at her hand. Eventually, she looks up. A pair of warm blue eyes is watching her, without judgement or condemnation.

“What had he done?”

“Murdered his girlfriend. Since he’s dead, I can’t ask him why.” That comes with an acid edge of bitterness. “It won’t be a good reason, though. There’s never a good reason.”

Castle supposes not. Death is pretty permanent.

“So what happens?”

“They took my gun away, I did my report, now they investigate, and when they’re finished they give me it back. But till then I can’t do anything but desk duty.”

Her hands curl back around her glass, knuckles white, fingers knotted. Castle concludes that desk duty is not her favourite thing.

“How long?”

“It’s supposed to be three or four days.” She sounds entirely dispirited. He extends a hand towards her, then draws it back. She’s not looking for comfort. She’s not, in fact, looking for anything. The flame of writer’s interest burns hotter. Totally self-contained, totally self-sufficient.

Totally uninterested.

Or maybe not quite, because she’s gone from brushing him off to answering questions.

“That sucks, too,” he agrees. She nods, once. “I guess you don’t like being stuck behind a desk.”

“No.”

As he’s about to ask something more, his stomach grumbles, very audibly. He colours slightly. “I didn’t get dinner. D’you think there’s something here that isn’t going to give me ptomaine poisoning?”

She shrugs.

“What did you eat?”

She shrugs again.

“You didn’t eat? Why not?”

Another shrug. Shrugs are becoming tedious.

Castle stands up and goes to talk to the bartender. He returns, even less impressed with the Haunt’s current management than he had been an hour ago.

“There is no food here. C’mon. Let’s go get a burger somewhere.”

“What?”

“Burger,” Castle says, impatiently. “Food.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m hungry, there is no food here, and I want to know about being a cop.”

“What?”

“Come on. I’m not going to kidnap you, I just want some dinner.”

“You couldn’t. I have a g – oh.”

Castle stops. “Look, I promise not to kidnap you, okay? My mother would never let me forget it and my daughter would kill me before you got the chance.”

“Mother? Daughter?”

“Yeah, well. We live together, okay?”

“Whatever.”

He lives with his mother? That’s… weird. And not exactly a recommendation. On the other hand, she’s not drinking the whisky, now that he’s mentioned hunger she is hungry, and she very much doubts that, even without her gun, he could beat her at sparring.

“Okay,” she says. “Dinner. There’s a burger place about ten minutes’ walk from here. Remy’s.”

“I was going to suggest there too,” Castle enthuses. “I love that place.” He only just manages not to say _and how have I never noticed you there_? Surely he’d have noticed someone who looks like this? He doesn’t usually miss a gorgeous woman.


	3. Chapter 3

A short walk later, he’s still wondering how he has never seen her before, and consequently not talking. Her stride pattern is a convenient match to his, and so there’s nothing to interrupt his – their – rhythm.

When they enter Remy’s, much becomes clear.

“Detective Beckett” – so that’s her name: Kate Beckett – the waitperson says. “Usual table? Who’s this? New partner?”

“No. No new partner. Usual table, please.”

Castle trails after her. Usual table turns out to be a semi-screened booth at the back of the restaurant, which is more or less invisible from any other table. So that’s why he’d never have noticed her: not that he comes here any more. He’d used to, before he was famous. She slides into the place nearest the wall. With a sudden attack of discretion and common sense, Castle sits down opposite her, rather than next to her.

In the much better light in Remy’s, she’s even more stunning than he’d thought. “Why are you a cop?” he blurts out. “Shouldn’t you be a lawyer, or a model?”

“I enjoy being a cop,” she bites out, each word clipped off short.

“Okay, okay. I get it.” She’s unbelievably prickly. But, masochistically, he’s fascinated. She’s not making the slightest effort to treat him nicely, which is an interesting change from more or less everyone, every year since his first blockbuster novel, and the more he sees of her the more –

The more a character is coalescing in his head.

A character. A _new_ character.

But not a story. He can’t feel the story, only the character. He slumps. For a moment he’d had hope, and now it’s dashed. He orders, bleakly, listens to Kate Beckett’s order just in case he makes some notes on a character, and munches slowly through his burger and fries, depressed. She’s equally silent.

Oddly, her silence is almost reassuring. So many people are trying to attract his attention (or just attract him), nagging or asking or shouting or intruding: he never has peace outside his loft, and, depending on his mother’s mood, sometimes not there either. Strangely, this prickly, uncommunicative, tightly wrapped woman is _peaceful_.

Of course, she doesn’t know who he is. That’s probably why. If she knew, she’d be just like all the rest.

He has a flash of inspiration. He simply won’t tell her who he is. Sometime in the last thirty seconds he’s decided that however touch-me-not this spiky, irritable, and definitely not fawning woman is, he wants to see more of her anyway. He wants the complete lack of pressure and the silence. And of course, he wants a much better look at that glorious face and body. Still strangely, though, he doesn’t _only_ want to tumble her into bed and enjoy her. Would be nice, though. No pressure. No performance expectations. Just Rick, whoever Rick is. In fact, he doesn’t even want to try – not now. He wants to get to know her. Become acquainted. Extraordinarily, he wants to be _friends_.

Beckett is slowly chewing on her burger, and considering her deep relief that this _hadn’t_ been superstar writer Richard Castle. She’d really thought it was, until he’d denied it. That would have been just too totally embarrassing. She’d have spent the succeeding minutes trying not to ask for a signed book, and then she’d have precipitately left in order not to have to explain why she wants one. Another one. Explaining that it makes her feel closer to her dead mother and that she badly needs to feel close to her whenever she’s had to shoot to kill is… not somewhere she wants to go with _anyone_ , still less a superstar who wouldn’t care.

This guy – despite looking very, very like the author – doesn’t give off any celebrity superstar vibe at all. No overbearing personality, or _look-at-me_ spoilt brat-ness. No _don’t you know who I am_? All the PR about celebrity Richard Castle suggests that he would never hide his identity. Clearly there’s something on this Rick’s mind, but if he wants her to know he’ll tell her. She doesn’t push for information, off duty. She does quite enough of that in her job.

He’d been a little pushy, though. Pushed himself into her fog of misery; pushed about going to get a burger – though he’d really been hungry, from the way he’s downing his, so maybe that’s okay. If she’d not agreed, he’d have left it. Anyways, she can deal. A little bit of guts, a little willingness to stand up for his own wants: she can deal with that.

He looks pretty miserable, though. Whatever he’s lost, it’s important to him. She knows how that feels. Oh, yes, she knows how that feels. Gathering up her empathy; what’s left of it after dealing with the victims’ families, the misery that’s a constant by-product of her work; she attracts his attention by tapping the back of his hand with a slim, neat-nailed finger, and when the first, barely-there tap has no effect, taps harder, with a slight rub.

That’s… that’s… that is _not_ what she expected at all. It’s ridiculous. Dumb. It’s not possible. She’s imagining things. Or it’s been so long since she’s had a boyfriend that anyone would have the same effect.

But from the shocked, hot look in his eyes he’s had exactly the same reaction to her touch as she did. It’s electric. She whips her hand away, high colour scalding her cheekbones.

“Uh? What happened there?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing,” he contradicts.

“I was attracting your attention.” Oh God. She couldn’t have chosen her words worse if she’d tried. His eyes dance. “You looked miserable, okay? I was going to ask if you were okay.”

“You could have coughed, or something. You might have sounded like a dying horse, but you could’ve made a noise.” There’s a wickedly attractive crinkle at his eyes – what? No. No, no, no. No attraction.

“You wouldn’t have noticed. So I tapped you.”

“I certainly noticed that.”

“It was just a tap.”

Castle doesn’t think it was _just a tap_. Castle thinks that it might as well have been a blowtorch, because he is _scorched_. Castle, in fact, thinks that he hasn’t felt a connection like that in _years_. And Castle is about to try something that – if she had her gun, which he is very firmly remembering that she does not – ought to get him shot. But her eyes are blazing hot and her face has coloured up and he thinks that she’s feeling the same burn he is.

“Yeah, sure,” he drawls.

“It was!”

“Fine. If it was just a tap, then you won’t mind tapping again. Just to prove it’s nothing.”

“No.”

Castle smiles dangerously. “You’re scared. Fraidy cat.”

“I am not!”

“Sure you are. Otherwise you’d do it. One little tap.”

“It’s dumb.”

Castle smirks annoyingly and exudes an atmosphere of _see you’re scared_. His hand remains still on the table, though the other is fidgeting frantically out of sight. There is a pregnant pause.

Her hand moves to tap – _yes!_ He called her right – and in one fast movement Castle’s hand flips over and he catches her finger. She freezes: stock-still in his grip; and only that tiny point of contact is flooding him with heat and sheer _want_ , so he slips his grip to have hold of her whole hand and it’s _slim_ and wholly hidden in his broad span but somehow it’s as wide as the world.

She should be pulling her hand away. She should be laying into him and flaying him with words and possibly the handy knife at her plate. She should be tipping her milkshake over his head and standing up and walking out.

She should not be staring at him like a stunned sow and letting him keep her hand and feeling the shock run right down through her body.

But she is.

Her only consolation is that he looks as much like a stunned hog as she feels. Which is surely the only reason why she _still_ hasn’t removed her hand. Or his, with the blunt knife.

And then that becomes out of the question too because he’s caught her other hand and now the circuit has closed and she can’t believe that she’s letting this happen but she can’t believe how it feels and she simply cannot think any more. And he’s still gripping both her hands and his are warm and dry and wholly enveloping and who is this Rick Rodgers anyway because he’s totally fried her brain, only from holding her hands.

Castle has fried his own brain. He can’t even consider letting go of her hands. He can’t think. He doubts he could stand up, because he only has sensation in his own hands, where they’re clasping hers. He sits there, hanging on to her like she’s the last lifebelt on the Lusitania, completely incapable of speech, thought, or movement: staring at her as she is staring at him.

There is a space of absolute silence: a void around them that remains unpierced.

Beckett becomes aware that his thumbs are repetitively stroking over her palms; that his eyes are fixed on hers; that she could rapidly drown in the blue. She breaks his gaze, looking down at the table, the remains of her fries, a scattering of salt.

She’s looked away. Castle doesn’t like that: he wants to keep searching her hazel eyes for… for what? For the character that’s rapidly forming in his head? But if there’s no story, there’s no need for the character; no need for the woman…

No. He _will_ need the character. He does need the woman. But this is _not_ going to flip over into the flashfire of hot desire and nothing more: a one-night stand where they never see each other again. No. This is going to be different.

He brings their still-linked hands down to the table.

“I wanna see you again,” he says, tentatively, suggesting but not demanding.

That was…not what she was expecting. The heat in his eyes had implied a very different outcome. One which she would have turned down, regardless of the arc sparking between them. She doesn’t do one-night stands. Not ever. Too many risks, all of which she’s seen in her career. But he isn’t trying for a one-night stand. He’s suggesting…another meeting. Not even, exactly, a date. Her conviction that he is _not_ Richard Castle is cemented. A celebrity wouldn’t care, and certainly wouldn’t want to meet again.

“Okay,” her mouth says, before her brain can stop it.

His face lights up. “Great!” he bounces. “Tomorrow? Here? Or back at the bar? Somewhere else?”

“Uh…. Here. The bar is horrible.”

“Okay.” He thinks for a second. “Seven? Is that too late? Too early?”

“Just right.”

“Goldilocks. Except you can’t be Goldilocks because you’ve got dark hair so that doesn’t work…”

At her sardonic stare he trails off.

“Do you have a filter?” she asks. “Or does every thought fall out of your mouth?”

Castle forcibly stops himself saying _yes, I do have a filter, otherwise I’d be kissing you_ , and simply grins instead. “Seven tomorrow. Louis, I think” –

“This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” she caps. “Who’d have thought it?”

He gazes happily at her. “Perfect,” he says. “I like Bogie films too.”

She detaches a hand to finish eating her fries, chases them with her milkshake, and wipes her mouth. About that point she realises that her other hand is still firmly within his. She tugs, and retrieves it. He acquires a pathetically adorable expression of loss.

“I need both my hands,” she points out, stating the obvious.

“Really? What if I need an extra one?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He pouts at her. It should be totally off-putting. Instead it draws her attention to his lips, which are a distraction that she really doesn’t need. She needs to get home. She puts down her share of the check. Rick Rodgers scowls at it.

“I wanna pay.”

“I go Dutch,” she says firmly. He mutters blackly to himself. It’s sort of sweet, but she’s not conceding the point. Instead, she stands up, and shrugs on her jacket,

“You’re tall,” he says happily, and stands up himself. So is he. Very pleasantly tall, and just the right height to tuck her in, as is currently being demonstrated – hang on, what? Since when did friends equal arm round her and tucking her in?

Castle congratulates himself on his massive demonstration of self-control – as in: he isn’t tugging her round to him and kissing her – and on the serendipity that has led him to someone who hasn’t a clue who he is, doesn’t want anything from him (though he should have paid for dinner, he humphs to himself), and who is forming a more and more interesting character. Cop. Homicide cop. Hmmm.

And suddenly something starts to fall into place in his head. He can feel it. The tiniest twinge of inspiration starting to tickle his brain. He keeps her safely tucked in as they walk along to the subway station, and the twinges start to coalesce.

“My stop,” she says. “I’m going east.”

“Mine too, but I’m going west. Look, give me your number, and I’ll give you mine, and then if there’s any disaster” – she lifts an eyebrow – “I don’t know: maybe aliens invading, or Yellowstone erupting, or something” –

“I think the cellphone networks might not be working in either case,” she points out very dryly.

“Whatever. Please?”

“Oh, okay.” She takes his phone, taps briskly for a few seconds, and gives it back in exchange for him doing the same.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow, at Remy’s?”

“Yes.”

She turns away. Castle gives in to impulse, turns her back, and pecks her cheek. She strides off, but he can see flusterment in each definite clack of her shoes.

He doesn’t turn to his own platform until she’s out of sight, and then he dashes to catch the train, desperate to get home. It’s clicked. There’s a story in his head and he has to start _now_ before it flees his clutching fingers.

He’s barely home before his laptop is open and a new document begun: a quick _hey_ to his family, who recognise the signs – his mother might have wanted to say something, but he’s not stopping or listening as the office door closes behind him; and then an outline starting to take shape on his page. It’s sketchy in the extreme, but it’s _there_.

By midnight, he has a skeleton, of sorts. By three a.m., it’s developed a little flesh. By four, when he falls into bed, exhausted in the best possible way, he knows it’s going to be there.

He only needs to keep seeing her. To listen to her stories. He doesn’t need to tell her about his missing book, because if he can only hear her brisk, uptown tones then the story is going to be there. He only needs to keep her near, and not, never ever, reveal that he’s not Rick Rodgers, ordinary working stiff, but Richard Castle, celebrity superstar author and multimillionaire, who does Balthazar like it’s a burger bar and eye-candy like it’s going out of fashion.

With her, this evening, he didn’t want to be Richard Castle at all. He just wanted to be him. No need for the put-on personality and the big-I-am; no need for the show and the glam and the glitz. No need to pretend.

He crashes into sleep and dreams of her: a tall slim brunette, with eyes that hold universes and multitudes, with legs as long as the Mississippi but silence as deep as the Atlantic, with a choppy haircut and prickly temper, and yet with all that, she’s provided the first peaceful moments he’s had in years. His dreams are of closeness: the sensation of her fingers closed within his; the curve of her shoulders beneath his arm; the soft skin of her cheek as he’d laid a swift buss upon it.

He wakes to find himself wrapped around a pillow, and wonders at the affection he’s revealing. He’s not a man who ordinarily starts with affection: that’s for his family. Outsiders are liked, or taken to bed; they’re not given affection.

Beckett makes it home without realising how she got there, which is a pretty perfect summing up of the entire evening. She has absolutely no idea how any of the evening got to where it did. First off, she hadn’t wanted _any_ company. Yet she’d let him stay around. Then she hadn’t intended to talk about it. Yet she did. Then she hadn’t meant to encourage him – yet she had done that too. She hadn’t needed to touch him. And just to put the icing on the cake, she’d let him hold her hands, cuddle her in as they walked, and then plant a soft kiss on her cheek.

And of course, she’s agreed to see him again tomorrow.

But it was… well, _nice_. Easy. No pressure. No knowledge of her history, and no desire to get to know anything except about her job. She’s cool with that. And despite the unmistakable fact that he’d felt the same scorching connection that she had, he hadn’t pushed. She likes that. She _really_ likes that he didn’t hit on her.

Sometimes, she needs a little help to keep on putting one foot in front of the other. Lanie is a great friend: they’re there for each other whenever they need it, but it’s not the same as an undemandingly warm form of just plain physical affection. Not sex. Sex… well, that’s a different matter and it’s not what she means here. She means…um… cuddles. It sounds ridiculous, but…she doesn’t see a lot of affection in her life, and she could really, really use some. And being cuddled in had felt very good indeed.

She falls asleep, quite insanely since she’s cleansed her face, with a fingertip to her cheek where his lips had touched her skin, and wakes with a totally unreasonable feeling of lightness when she remembers that she’s got somewhere to be this evening that isn’t staring at her walls or into a glass.


	4. Chapter 4

The next afternoon, Jenna Cournat calls. It’s not good news. Whoever bought his book paid cash, didn’t leave a legible name, and all that the auction team can remember is that she was a good-looking brunette. As if there weren’t several hundred thousand of _those_ around Manhattan.

On the other hand, he doesn’t need the book, as long as he can see Kate. And tonight, he will. He just needs to carry on being Rick Rodgers, and he really, really doesn’t think that that will be a problem. Even so, he arranges with Jenna to take a look at the scrawl, just in case, and sets a time for the next day.

Come seven o’clock, Castle wanders into Remy’s, dressed rather carefully in a decent but not expensive pair of pants and shirt with a casual coat, all of which he’d had to search out of the back of his closet. Keeping _down_ appearances: any half-decent cop would be able to tell the difference between ordinary-Joe wear and his very expensive pure cotton shirts and cashmere sweaters. Here, he’s just Rick.

Kate arrives several minutes later, a little hurried and flustered.

“Hey,” she says. “Sorry. Had to finish up a warrant request.”

“Oooohhhh. Tell me about it? What do you want?”

“Strawberry milkshake, plain burger, fries.”

“Okay. What sort of a warrant? How do you get a warrant? Why do you need one? On TV they just break down the door.”

While Castle is burbling at breakneck speed, Beckett orders her meal and drink, and then prods his arm when he doesn’t do the same.

“Order,” she says briskly. He does. “Now that you’ve stopped talking, do you want some answers, or are you just going to keep asking questions without waiting for me to reply.”

He pouts at her. She is resolutely unaffected. “There’s so much to ask you, though.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s _interesting_. I’ve never met a homicide detective before.”

Beckett raises a cynical eyebrow. “Ghoul,” she says, half-smiling. “You just want to know about juicy murders.”

“No! I wanna know about everything.”

“I can recommend an encyclopaedia, or show you how to search Google,” she smirks.

Castle growls at her. “You’re being mean.”

“Yep.”

“So to make it up to me you can tell me all about warrants.”

“Why do you want to know about warrants?”

Beckett watches with some fascination as Rick Rodgers squirms. She waits, in her best interrogation style. As predicted, he can’t bear the silence, and has to fill it. He is, she notes with sardonic amusement, blushing.

“I…” he hitches, gulps, and starts again. “I thought I might write a story.”

She stares at him. “So as well as _looking_ like Richard Castle you want to write books like him? Are you intending to murder him and take over his life?”

“Don’t remind me I look like him. I’m sick of hearing that. Someone even suggested I should be his body double.” They had. It had been really funny. Then. “Anyway, I thought he wrote thrillers. I wanna know about police procedure. ”

“I guess it must be true,” Beckett says to the surrounding air. “Everyone wants to write a book.” She turns a piercing glare on Rick. “No attribution. No florid descriptions. No exaggerations. And definitely no kicking down doors without warrants. Anyway, all kicking down doors gets you is sore feet and arthritic knees.”

Rick droops at her. “That’s no fun.”

“Crime isn’t _fun_ ,” she grates. “Crime hurts people.” He blinks. “Never mind the victim, what about the people left behind? Dead’s dead: they don’t feel anything any more, but the rest of us do” – she stops very hard. Rick’s mouth opens – and then he catches her expression, which promises blood and pain if he emits a single syllable, and shuts it again. She takes a drink, and then another, and then a bite of her burger, and another sip of her drink. She can feel his eyes upon her, but when she lifts hers he’s still quiet: his gaze soft.

“So. Warrants,” she says firmly, and begins to explain. Approximately every five words Rick comes up with another question. By the time she’s finished, she has been wrung totally dry of every piece of information she might ever have known or possessed or heard or read on the subject of warrants. Rick’s eyes are alight. _Most_ people would have been desiccated into sand in the desert by the subject. He’s utterly fascinated. He’s even taken notes, which is above and beyond.

She takes a defiant bite of her now-tepid burger in order to be able to stop explaining for a while.

“But what about…”

“No. No more questions till I’ve eaten the rest of my dinner.” She takes another defiant munch.

“But…”

“Nope. Food. You’re finished. I’m not.” She keeps on eating, in case he should do something drastic, such as remove the burger. If he does, she’ll remove his fingers. That’ll stop his story cold. “What’s your real job?”

“I work in an office.”

Castle isn’t lying. He knows that it’s totally misleading, but he absolutely can’t afford to scare her off. He does work in an office – his office, in his expensively luxurious loft, in his own time. And he did write thrillers. Derrick Storm is a thriller series. This book: so far untitled, will be a police procedural. Mostly. It might also be a romance. Not much romance. His readership isn’t – or at least has not previously been – notably romance-oriented. Then again, given the number of women in the signing queues, it might even be more popular if he does include more romance.

He pats the hand that isn’t conveying burger and/or fries to mouth. Just the same as yesterday, the thrill sizzles through his fingers and up his arm. Her eyes widen, and he’s _sure_ she feels it too. Definitely more romance.

“An office? Doesn’t sound very interesting. No wonder you want to know about cops.”

“It’s not.” Especially when he’s blocked. Nothing more tedious than staring at the walls of his office when he has no inspiration. “I’d much rather hear about cops.”

“I’ve done enough talking.”

“Would dessert keep you talking?” he says hopefully.

“I said, I’ve done enough talking. You talk. You asked enough questions.” She pauses. “And I get dessert anyway, and coffee.” She gestures at the server, who appears alongside the table, and orders brownies with ice cream, and a latte. “Did you want anything?” she asks Castle’s amazed visage.

“No…” he stutters. He’s not met an adult woman who eats like this for ten years. The ones he meets eat three small lettuce leaves – per day – and regard cucumber as dangerously calorific. Kate Beckett scarfed down her burger and looked like she savoured every rapid bite, and now she’s eyeing up her brownie and ice cream like she hasn’t eaten for a week. Not a woman who is slow about going after what she wants. In the short space of his thinking, half the dessert has disappeared.

“Staring is creepy,” she says, and condescends to explain further. “I was hungry. Missed lunch.”

“Why?”

“I said, no more talking.” She employs the remains of the brownie to fill her mouth, effectively stopping any chance of words, and chases it with coffee.

Another oddity. This cop behaves and speaks as if she grew up in uptown society. Definitely she should have been a lawyer. Why a cop? He clamps down on a suicidal desire to ask, and suddenly remembers that odd feeling that she’d known about loss. Another wave of inspiration floods his brain.

“You can tell me tomorrow.”

“Busy tomorrow.”

“Next day?”

“Day after, okay?”

She puts her share of the check down (he does not like that. He wants to pay) and slips on her jacket.

“Here again? Seven?”

“Sure.”

“Going to the subway?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” he says happily. “So’m I.” It doesn’t take him more than ten seconds after they leave Remy’s to put his arm round her and tuck her in. She fits beautifully into the planes of his form; exactly matches the curve of his elbow; and if only the walk to the station were longer, he’d be even happier.

Beckett had given some thought to whether Rick would try to put an arm around her again, and had rather decided he wouldn’t. It becomes borne upon her that she had no good reason for that conclusion as soon as they leave Remy’s; since she is quite definitively cuddled in. She likes it, she decides again. It’s very reassuring to be cuddled.

Castle whisks himself home and lets story flood out through his fingers on the keys: creating a back story for his main character, who bears an astonishing physical resemblance to one Detective Kate Beckett. He pours into his writing the hints of loss; the tight wrapped, close-mouthed personality; and builds the portrait of a woman who’s lost a close relation, who’s changed her life to deal with it, who’s still mourning her loss every day of her life. He can’t stop writing till he’s so exhausted he can barely see the keys: lost in his creation.

The next day, Castle is back at his laptop as soon as Alexis has left for school: desperate to haul his ideas out of his head and on to the paper where he can turn them into a coherent story. He outlines, filling in sentences and paragraphs as they occur to him: fleshing out his characters and his plot. When his phone reminds him that it’s time to go see the auction list, he’s almost angry that he has to pause.

“Hey, Jenna. I’ve come to see the list.”

Jenna parks him in a comfortable chair in a quiet room, away from the fundraising hubbub of her team.

“I’ll just bring it. Do you want a coffee?” She runs an interested gaze over him. Castle gives her back a bland, pleasant, and above all uninterested expression. She turns to the door with an air of mild disappointment, and shortly returns with the list and no coffee.

Castle peruses the list carefully. Very carefully, and then peruses it again even more carefully. Then he considers whether he needs the assistance of a graphologist, or whether an Egyptologist with a specialisation in hieroglyphics would be more appropriate. He has no more idea of what the scrawl might be – or indeed even whether it contains letters – than he would have been able to read the Great Pyramid in the original. He’d have done better with Elvish runes, or Klingon.

By dint of considerable squinting, he considers that the opening letter might be a K. Or a P. Or an R. Or maybe a B, D, G or even X. Nothing else resembles any letter of which he has ever heard or which he has ever read. He concludes, bitterly, that _his_ book has been bought by a complete illiterate, manages to thank Jenna, provide Paula’s details should more support for the charity be needed, and leave without descending into totally black despair.

Despair lurks about him nevertheless, until he reaches home and reads back the earlier work of the morning. Subsumed in the memory of Kate Beckett, inspiration drives out despair.

He misses seeing her that night, and the next, but it doesn’t stop him writing: inspiration burning brighter than the sun. The story is all there, ready to be written, until he has to stop, because now he needs to know about the cops around her. She’d mentioned names, he recalls, and sifts his memory until those same names are forced to the front of his mind. Ryan, and Esposito. He’ll ask about them, tomorrow night, he decides, and a little curl of happy warmth nestles in his chest at the thought of seeing Kate again.

* * *

Beckett, having spent the day determinedly chasing down clues and trying not to think about how interested Rick would have been in every tiny detail, finally departs the bullpen to meet Lanie.

“Hey girl. How you doing?”

“Good,” Beckett says.

“Good? Wow, something must have gone right. What’s his name?”

“What?”

“What’s his name? You haven’t said anything better than _fine_ , in that tone that means you’re not fine at all, for months, since you got ditched by that dumbass Fed. Must be someone making you happy. So what’s his name?”

“I want a drink.”

“And I wanna know this guy’s name.”

Beckett glares at her friend – for now – and then pushes her way to the bar. Lanie follows her, grinning evilly.

“Two glasses of white wine, please.”

Two glasses are produced, and Beckett stalks back to a table. Lanie cheerfully saunters along behind her, still grinning evilly. The glasses click down with a decided note of irritation. Beckett drops into her seat without a click but with another decided note of irritation. Lanie, by contrast, bounces down and regards her with a bright-eyed look promising interrogation.

“So who is he?”

“Lanie! No-one.”

“No-one makes you blush? Must be a really interesting no-one – or battery operated.”

“ _Lanie!_ ”

“C’mon, girl, give.”

“It’s nothing important.” Lanie looks even more inquisitive. “Just this guy I met in a bar.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“When are you seeing him next?”

“We’re not _dating_.”

“That wasn’t an answer. When are you seeing him again?”

“Tomorrow,” Beckett mutters.

“At least put some lipstick on. A skirt wouldn’t hurt, either.”

“We’re not dating. No lipstick. No skirt.”

Lanie makes an unimpressed face. “You’re as withered as the grass in the Mojave desert.”

“There is no grass in the Mojave desert.”

“Exactly.”

Beckett sticks her tongue out, very childishly.

“So what’s he like?” Lanie asks, interrogating yet again.

“Looks a bit like that author” –

“Richard Castle? You’ve been drooling over his photo for years.”

“I have _not_ ,” Beckett squawks indignantly. “Anyway, he’s not that much like him. Not a smug, arrogant womaniser. Works in an office.”

Lanie raises an eyebrow. Beckett glares back, unintimidated. She isn’t interested in the Richard Castle story, only in the books. The books are what her mother loved. The books are what kept her halfway sane. She doesn’t want to know about Richard Castle in reality – because it would be sure to puncture that little space where she can remember her mother alive, smiling, laughing, and happy. She’d only be disappointed by the reality.

“Name?”

“Rick Rodgers.” As soon as she’s admitted the name, Beckett wishes she hadn’t. “No searching him out, Lanie! And no blabbing to Ryan and Espo, either.”

Lanie regards her offendedly. “I wouldn’t,” she snips. “That’s against the girlfriend code.” She pauses. “And you’d blab something embarrassing about me if I did.”

“Yep.”

Lanie fixes Beckett with a glare. “So. This Rick Rodgers. What does he do?”

“Office job.”

Lanie droops a little. “Interesting hobbies?”

“Dunno.”

More droop.

“Bought you dinner?”

“Didn’t let him.”

By now Lanie is so drooped that she resembles a dead sunflower. “You _didn’t let him?_ ” she squawks. “Girl, what are you _on_? You’re crazy. If a man wants to buy you dinner, you let him. That’s dating 101.”

“Not dating.”

“You damn well should be dating. It’s been months since Fed-Ex left for Boston and it’s about time you got back in the game.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Don’t give me that shit, Kate. You’re just scared.”

“I am _not_.”

“Are so. Scaredy cat. Just ‘cause that asshole ditched you” –

“I ditched him” –

“Yeah, about ten seconds before he _didn’t_ ask you to go to Boston with him” –

“Shut up.”

“– you won’t even dip a tippy-toe in the pool. I swear if you don’t do something soon I’m gonna push you in the deep end without a lifeguard.”

“That’s because you’ll be hitting on him in the changing room,” Beckett snips.

“You wouldn’t be, so why’d you worry? A nice muscular lifeguard…” Her eyes turn dreamy.

“I don’t want a lifeguard. I don’t want to date. I’m _fine_.”

Lanie regards her sceptically. “Well, if you’re not gonna date at least don’t drive this Rick guy off. You need some pals who don’t do death all the time.”

Beckett notably fails to point out that Rick is exceedingly interested in her job, and further fails to point out that she loves her job. Lanie on a mission is worse than a wolf on a blood trail. Anyway, she doesn’t want to talk about Rick. He’s… her friend. Even after only two meetings, he’s her _friend_. She doesn’t want to spoil it by displaying it to Lanie. Lanie will only ask hundreds of questions and she doesn’t see the point of answering any of them. Well. Truthfully, she doesn’t _want_ to answer any of them.

“So who are _you_ dating?” she asks combatively. “Now you’ve finished interrogating me, that is.”

Lanie doesn’t so much as blush. “Anyone who looks good,” she grins. “I don’t discriminate.” She leers cheerfully. “But I only go on a second date if they treat me right.”

Beckett groans. “Let’s have more wine,” she sighs.

“And more men?” Lanie leers hopefully.

“No men.”

“No _fun_ ,” Lanie grumps.

“Nope,” Beckett says smartly, and disappears to the bar to get the drinks in so that Lanie can’t retort.

* * *

Beckett’s day is frantic. Fortunately she’s been cleared and has her gun back, because a new body has dropped, and the team is racing round setting every investigative possibility on the go. She barely looks at her watch until six-forty-five, and realises with horror that she has no chance at all of making Remy’s before seven-thirty, let alone seven. She can’t leave the case.

She whips out her phone and rapidly texts Rick, a brief explanation and an apology, and turns back to the murder board and the case. Shortly, her phone chirps, with a reply. She opens it with some trepidation.

 _Okay._ She breathes a sigh of relief. _If you tell me where you are, I could bring you a takeout?_

She considers for, oh, at least half a second, before she replies. _Would love that. Twelfth Precinct, 321 E. 5 th. Thanks._

Three-quarters of an hour later, the desk sergeant rings up. Fortunately Montgomery has left. Beckett doesn’t want to test his tolerance for stray people in the bullpen.

“Beckett.”

“Detective, I got a Rick here for you, with a takeout delivery.”

“Okay. Um… send him up?”

“Sure.”

A moment or two later, the elevator doors open and Rick walks out, staring round as wide-eyed as a five year old at the Macy’s fireworks.

“Kate?” he says, spotting her and hurrying to her desk. “I brought takeout” – and then he spots her murder board, and stops mid-flow, drops the takeout (fortunately on to her desk) and stares at it, speechless and stunned.


	5. Chapter 5

Beckett unwraps the takeout and finds that it includes two dinners: one clearly being for Rick. She dives into hers, disposing of it in short order, but in the few moments she took to eat the whole lot, Rick hasn’t moved, still staring at the board.

“Do you want your burger?” she asks. It seems to knock him out of his mesmerised fascination for an instant. He flips his gaze to her, and then back to the board.

“What’s this?” he queries, mechanically eating his own dinner without removing his eyes from the story of homicide. Beckett could almost be jealous of the board, if she weren’t so fascinated and mildly amused by his evident absorption.

“It’s my murder board.”

“Murder board?”

“Yeah. Easiest to pin everything on the case in one place, so we can all see it.”

“All?”

“The team.” She looks around. “Let’s introduce you. Ryan, Espo, got a moment?”

Two mismatched men wander up, surveying Castle piercingly.

“Guys, this is Rick.” She doesn’t say anything else about him.

“Rick,” the burly Hispanic says flatly. Then he smiles evilly. “Anything you wanna tell us, Beckett?”

Beckett? They call her Beckett? Not Kate? Dammit, now he needs to change that. Thank God for search-and-replace.

Kate matches Espo’s (is that his full name, Castle wonders) evil smile with a sardonic grin of her own. “No. You could tell me about that pretty transit cop you went out with last week, though.”

“How’d you – _Ryan_!”

Kate snickers. “Wasn’t Ryan. I have my ways… and you were tagged on Facebook.” Espo splutters.

In the interim, a slim, blue-eyed and rather boyish man in a sweater-vest (ugh) has watched. “So who’s this Rick, Beckett? And why’s he bringing you takeout?”

This time Kate squirms slightly. “We were supposed to have dinner,” she begins.

“Dinner?” the two cops say together.

“Like a _date_ dinner?” Ryan says with amazement. “You?”

Castle is equally amazed. A woman who looks like Kate doesn’t date?

“Not a date,” she grumps.

“No,” he agrees quickly. “Just dinner.”

The cops’ attention is drawn back to him, and Castle experiences an uncomfortably slow, intensive examination. Approval is not the dominant flavour. He examines them right back, critically. In fact, he’s fixing small details in his mind, a mental photograph album of expressions and appearance, stance, accent, movement, speech. He can’t decide if he wants to rush home and write them up or stay here and cross-examine them about every aspect of their lives and personalities.

“Why’re you here?”

“Kate” – there is a slight bogglement – “said she couldn’t make dinner so I offered to bring takeout.” He smiles, an edge of nervousness to it. “I didn’t think it would be good for her to be hungry.”

“More dangerous if she doesn’t get her coffee,” Ryan smirks.

“Not eating, not so much.”

“Wanna see around?”

“Sure,” Castle says enthusiastically. “I’d love to. I’ve never seen a working precinct before.”

The two men sweep him off. “Isn’t Kate coming too?”

“Beckett? Naw. She’s thinking about the case.”

Castle is swept into a kitchen-sitting area, which contains – he’s still taking mental notes and photos – a commercial coffee machine, a microwave, a sink and a battered, stained couch. It’s not prepossessing at all.

It becomes downright frightening when the door shuts behind them and he’s the recipient of two full-scale Force Twelve intimidatory glares.

“We want a chat with you.”

Castle bristles immediately. “Do you? Why? What’s it got to do with you?”

“Beckett’s our team. We look out for her.”

“Does she know that? Do you do this to everyone she meets, or is it reserved for me?”

“You’re here.”

“Kate” – he emphasises her name – “said she couldn’t come to dinner. So I brought it. She was cool with that. Nothing else.”

“When did you meet her?”

“Where did you meet her?”

“Did you hit on her?”

Castle’s temper explodes. “No, I didn’t. I don’t go round hitting on uninterested women.” He just manages to shut his lips on _I don’t need to, women hit on me_. “This conversation is done. Kate’s a friend. That’s it.” He turns on his heel, walks out of the break room and, incandescently furious while totally inspired, walks straight into the elevator and out of the precinct.

A short taxi ride later, he’s home, ignoring his mother even though she’s draining his best red, and, fired up by fury, is hammering words into his keyboard with pinpoint precision, creating two aggressively protective detectives who interfere with his heroine’s tentative meetings with a sexy reporter.

* * *

Back in the break room, Esposito and Ryan stare at each other.

“That…wasn’t cool.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have accused him of hitting on her.”

Esposito colours, which is as good as a confession.

“What’re you gonna tell Beckett?”

“Nothing. That Rick guy’ll probably be tattling already.”

Their confidence starts to leave when they exit the break room and find that there is no Rick-guy in evidence. Confidence runs for the hills when Beckett looks up at them and clearly expected there to be three men not two. Her face darkens.

“Where’s Rick?”

Answer comes there none.

“What did you do?”

Still answer comes there none.

“Get your over-protective asses over here and explain!” she hisses. “What did you do and _where is Rick_?”

“Dunno,” Ryan mumbles.

“Did you pair of” – an expletive is audibly not vocalised in the space – “ _dumbasses_ put the hard word on him?”

There is a horrible silence.

“Wanna tell me why?” she asks cuttingly. “Something one of you wants to tell me that you haven’t in the last six months? Because I wouldn’t date a co-worker if you paid me.”

“No! It wasn’t like that!”

“Ewww,” Ryan emits.

“So what _was_ it like?” Silence. “Right. So you decided you’d do a little intimidating of _my friend_ and you’ve scared him off?”

“Don’t think he was scared,” Ryan mumbles. “Pissed, more like.”

“The important words there were _my friend_ ,” Beckett bites. “Thanks to you two, likely I’ll never see him again. Get out of my sight.”

Ryan and Esposito make it a full three steps before they work out that Beckett’s shoulders have slumped and she appears to be utterly miserable. They reconvene out of her earshot.

“I think we messed up.”

“I _know_ we messed up.”

“How’re we gonna fix it?”

There is a pause.

“I got it!” Ryan exclaims. “Soon’s she goes to the restroom, get her phone and find the number.”

“Keypad lock.”

Ryan droops. “We don’t even know his name.”

“We could ask Beckett for his number.”

“We could get shot. Less likely to be fatal.”

Inspiration fails to strike them. Guilt, on the other hand, has scored a knockout.

Beckett stares miserably at her desk, searching for a way to fix the boys’ complete fuck-up. She _wants_ to call Rick, but she doesn’t know how to explain, and anyway, he’d clearly stormed out so obviously he doesn’t want to talk to her.

She buries her head in her case file and refuses to talk to anyone, downing the filth the precinct machine claims to be espresso without pause. After an hour or so, she stands up, favours the entire bullpen with a rock-melting glare, collects her phone, and walks out.

She takes herself off to her favourite close-by coffee bar, orders some coffee which deserves the name, adds a chocolate pastry because chocolate soothes all ills, and contemplates Rick’s phone number. Surely knowing the truth has got to be better than wondering?

She dials.

“Rick?” But only the voicemail picks up. She leaves a brief message of apology for her co-workers, doesn’t dare suggest another meeting, and disconnects. Back to the grind. For the first time ever, she doesn’t want to return: she wants to go home and bury her melancholy in her soft pillows and cool sheets. However, it’s a hot case and the victim deserves justice – and if she’s working, she won’t have time to mourn. She stalks back into the bullpen, puts her head down, and works. She doesn’t emit a single word to anyone.

“She don’t look good,” Espo whispers.

“Nope.”

“We fucked up.”

“Bigtime.”

“She’s really upset.”

“But she said they weren’t dating.”

“So? She said he was her friend. How many friends has Beckett got?”

“Us? Lanie? O'Leary?”

“Haven’t heard about anyone else, have we?”

“No.”

“So we’ve fucked up.”

“Bigtime.”

“If you two don’t want to solve this murder, go home.” Beckett’s jagged tones rip through the air, and Ryan and Espo hastily start to work.

Eventually, long after the others have left, Beckett drives home. Her phone hasn’t made a single sound all evening. She doesn’t shed a single tear, or sniff a single sniff. She’s too busy planning the extended, excruciating demise of the rest of her team. It’s enough to carry her through to sleep, and to an early start in the morning.

* * *

Castle’s fury carries him through hours of sustained writing, after which he falls into bed, wakes briefly to have breakfast with Alexis, and then returns to sleep. Searing rage always converts into a tsunami of creativity, and he’s always wrung out and emotionally exhausted afterward.

He doesn’t rouse until almost noon, and then showers and shaves. It’s not until he’s almost finished the second cup of coffee from his top-class machine that, in a blinding flash of horror, he realises that he’d stormed out of the precinct without a single word to Kate. By now she’ll have decided that she doesn’t want to speak to him ever again. He can’t believe he’s done that. Just because her team are A-grade jackasses doesn’t mean he had to be. Oh God. How is he going to fix this? He has to fix this.

He frantically finds his phone, and only then realises, dropping further into the abyss, that Kate had called. Hours ago. Last night. Oh God. No Kate, no Casino Royale. No hope. She’ll never want to talk to him now, because he missed her call and she’ll think he’s ignoring her or ditched her and _how_ is he ever going to fix it?

Trepidatiously, he listens to her message. It doesn’t give a single clue to whether she’s upset or not – which Castle, well used to female histrionics, cannot interpret at all. Cool, clear and above all calm voices are not common in his loud, emotional, celebrity world. When someone is upset, he certainly knows about it. His suspicion that she doesn’t want to speak to him hardens.

Even so, he… he has to see her. Has to speak to her. Has to know the details, the story. He can’t write without her. He’s not going to lose her. Bad enough to lose his book, he can’t bear to lose her too. Desperately, he dials.

There is no answer, only a few rings and then a cool voice inviting him to leave a message. He stammers out a few words, short apology for walking out, and hangs up: a moment later redialling.

“Kate… Remy’s? Seven? Tonight?”

He entirely fails to do anything productive for the whole of the afternoon: totally blocked, totally miserable. By six, he’s convinced himself that the two cops were scaring him off on her instructions, by six-thirty, he can barely force his feet to take him out of the door. At six fifty-five, he’s staring at the empty space in Kate’s usual booth in utter misery, perfectly certain that she won’t appear. At seven oh-five, he knows it, and only the beer in front of him is keeping him there.

At seven-ten the beer is gone and Castle reaches for his coat. His ignored phone falls from the pocket, and as he picks it up he notices the message icon. He taps. What does it matter if he takes a few seconds longer? He’s fucked, any way up. He’ll just have to try to decipher that signature, or maybe Jenna would have a guest list – surely there was a guest list. He’ll try that in the morning.

It’s not as if he’d have anywhere else to be.

_Can’t make it till seven thirty – case broke open. Wait for me? K._

Case broke open? Uh?

And then light dawns. She didn’t pick up because she was on the trail; she got the voicemails and somewhere she’s found a moment to message him. It’s not broken. It’s okay. _They’re_ okay.

He lays his coat back down, orders another beer – and still makes a note to himself to call Jenna Cournat about the guest list for the fundraiser in the morning. If he made a donation, maybe there would be some minion who’d check off all the legible names and thereby reduce the number of possibles to something manageable. If Castle were really lucky, there might even be few enough to call.

He sips his beer and, for the first time in many months, amuses himself by making up stories about the other customers and the passers by.

“Hey,” comes uncertainly, as Kate slides in opposite him. She looks – uh? Worried? Upset? Unhappy? All of the above and more? He doesn’t like her unhappy, he realises with shock. Her hands are cradled within his before he’s finished the thought: cold and still against his palms.

“I didn’t expect you,” he blurts.

Kate winces. “I didn’t expect you. After those two _idiots_ behaved like jackasses.” There’s a snap in her voice that Castle associates with their first meeting. “They had no right. I never expected they’d try that trick.” She takes a breath. “I’m sorry they were such pains.”

“Not your fault.”

She shrugs, wearily.

“Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t stop to say. I should’ve…”

“It’s okay.”

“Would you guys like to order?” a server asks.

“Plain burger, medium rare, fries, strawberry milkshake, thanks,” Beckett says brusquely.

“Cheeseburger, fries. Thanks.”

The server takes the hint and disappears.

“It’s not okay. I upset you and that’s not okay.” His clasp tightens. “I thought I’d screwed it all up.” Her eyes are wide. He rapidly changes the next sentence. “I’d just found a new friend, and” –

“And my old friends decided to screw with you,” she says bluntly. “Well, they’ve been told. They don’t get to pull that trick.” She smiles, sardonically. “Just as well you didn’t tell them your name, or they’d have been running you.”

Castle gapes. That’s a risk he’d never thought of. His names must be linked in some database somewhere. Oh God. He can’t – he doesn’t want to let that happen.

“Don’t look so shocked,” she gibes gently. “I’ll only run you if you commit a crime.”

He manages a feeble smile. “Better not do that, then. Don’t want you uncovering my dubious past.”

She smirks. Dubious past? He’s an office worker. Worst he’ll have done is some underage drinking and a couple of traffic tickets. Maybe he went all out and dodged a subway fare when he was fifteen.

“Sure you don’t,” she grins. He grins back, less feebly. At that point she realises that he’s still clasping her hands. A delicate eyebrow rises. “Are you kidnapping my hands, Rick?”

“No,” he smirks. The other eyebrow joins the first. “Kidnapping implies without consent. Since I’m sure you could stop me without even touching your gun if you disapproved – though if you disapproved I wouldn’t have kept them in the first place,” he adds quickly, “– there must have been consent. So no kidnapping.”

“Very clever. I don’t remember you asking permission, though. Kidnapping is a felony.”

“Are you threatening to cuff me? Because if so, my safe word is _apples_.”

“You’d enjoy it far too much,” Beckett bats back.

Before the discussion can descend further, the server brings their orders, and Rick releases Beckett’s hands – rather reluctantly and slowly. To be fair, she is not in any hurry to be released. As soon as the burgers are done, he repossesses her hand, leaving her one for drinking her milkshake. She raises a sardonic eyebrow (a trait he’s already written into the character) but turns her hand under his so they’re palm to palm.

It’s not until they’re long into a second round of coffee, after dessert, and another grilling on every aspect of her current case, the procedure, the order in which matters are investigated, and even what colour pens she uses on the board and why (huh? That’s well past anal-retentive and into seriously insane: she uses the pen that _works_ ) that Beckett realises that Rick hasn’t let go of her hand for an instant and that he’s mindlessly stroking with his thumb.

She ought to pull away. They’re _friends_. She ought to…but she already knows that she isn’t going to because now that she’s noticed it, well, it feels good. Cosy. Warm. Ah, the hell with it. Hot. But he doesn’t know he’s doing it, and he is _still_ , does the man never _stop?_ , asking questions. So she just won’t mention it.

Castle is so interested in Kate’s case and all the minor, but crucial for authenticity and colour, details of every aspect he can think of, that he doesn’t notice the time pass, the second round of coffee arrive, or, until he finally takes a deep breath and a slug of _ughhhhh_ cold coffee, that he is still holding Kate’s hand and petting gently.

As soon as he realises what he’s doing (and been doing) he knows that he ought to pull away. But…she’s not complaining, so maybe she likes it, or maybe she simply hasn’t noticed…so he just won’t mention it. He’ll try not to think about how good – hot – it feels, either, because they’re _friends_. In a fairly tactile, cuddly, way, to be sure, but _friends_.

Friends is good. Friends is very good.

“Can I come back to the precinct?” he asks.

“Uh?”

“Can I come back? I wanna look at it again. Get the details.”

“You what now?”

“Get the details. Like how the light is and what an interrogation room looks like and how you watch and if you put witnesses in there or just suspects and what about training or sparring or shooting practice and do you have paper files or are they somewhere else” –

“Archives,” she bites off.

“– and what’s the reception do and how and who’s there – he looked sorta old – and I noticed a Captain’s office but didn’t see him” –

“You don’t want to. He’s pretty hardass and he won’t want outsiders hanging around.”

“– and what’s in there that couldn’t be out in the main space” –

“Bullpen.”

“– and do you all have to be really tidy like in attorney’s offices” –

“You’ve never seen my dad’s desk” –

Castle stops. “Your dad’s an attorney?”

“Yep.”

He manages not to ask any questions about that. The expression on Kate’s face: pride, as if it were her child, mixed with a hint of old, deep sorrow, stops him.   He notices that she hasn’t mentioned her mother, and wildly surmises that her mother might be the loss to which she had admitted. He has no evidence whatsoever for that conclusion.

“Or does it not matter?” he finishes.

Kate is regarding him as if he’s insane.

Okay, maybe she’s not wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

He’s insane. Or obsessed. Or possibly manic. How can anyone be so keen on every trivial little detail – and how can anyone reel off that list of questions and brain dumping without stopping for breath? Is he a whale?

Well, no. Not a whale. Much better proportioned than a whale. No blubber, either. Though the breath control is impressive…. She manages not to blush. Friends. Friends is good. She resets herself.

“One question at a time,” she says firmly.

Rick stops, mouth open on what was sure to be another tidal wave of words without a pause for thought.

“One?”

“One.”

“Can I visit the precinct again?” He exaggeratedly closes his mouth and waits.

“Hmmm. I’ll think about it.”

“But I have to,” Rick pleads. “I’ve got to see it again.”

Beckett regards him with astonishment. He sounds like a druggie pleading for a hit: absolutely desperate.

“Why does it matter so much?”

“It’s got to be right. It won’t work if I don’t get the details right. I have to be precise.”

“Are you a bean-counter in real life? It’s a book. It’s not a step by step manual.”

“I take a lot of pride in being exact,” Rick says defensively. “It’s important to what I do.”

“Oh, okay. Bean-counter,” she says with amused affection. “I guess your personality is the same whether you’re at work or trying to do something completely different.”

“Yeah. Guess so. So can I come to the precinct again? Soon?”

Beckett looks at her watch. “If you had time, we could go now.”

“Now?”

“You wouldn’t have to put up with Ryan and Espo, and it’ll be quieter. My boss won’t be around, either. It wouldn’t be any fun if he told you to get lost, and I’d be carpeted. You can nose around without anyone getting upset.” She grins wickedly. “If you ask any of the cops as many questions as you ask me you’ll be in a cell on charges of unreasonable harassment.”

Rick ignores the last comment. “Now? Really? Yes. Let’s go.”

“Let’s pay the check first,” she says dryly. “Being arrested is so embarrassing if you’re a cop.”

Naturally, Rick’s butterfly mind seizes on that. “Arrested? You’ve been arrested? While you were a cop? How? Why? Who?"

“I was in Vice…” she trails the bait.

“You were?” His eyes are saucer wide, the bright blue fascinated already. “Oh, _Kate_. That’s amazing. What happened?”

She squirms. “Well, um, someone didn’t get the memo that I was undercover….”

It’s like the old fairy tale. Now his eyes are the size of dinner plates.

“…and arrested me along with all the real working girls…”

Now they are the size of soup tureens. She can’t help but be flattered by his complete absorption.

“…and it wasn’t until they booked me, about four hours later, that I managed to convince them that I was a cop.”

“Wow,” Rick breathes. She has a sudden feeling of impending disaster.   “So how were you arrested? What’s Booking? What’s it like? Why did it take so long? Why didn’t they believe you? Why” –

“Stop! No. More. Questions.” His mouth opens. “Or I won’t let you in the precinct.” It shuts, with a decided pout. “Let’s pay, and go. Before I regret it.” She leaves her half, and is halfway to the door before Rick has caught up.

“Can we walk there?”

“Sure.”

She’s barely vocalised the _S_ before his arm is wrapped around her. “Uh?” she articulates.

“Friends, right?”

“Yeah…”

“I hug my friends.”

Why argue? It feels nice. She likes it. And she’s let him do it every other time so it’s not like it’s a new thing and why upset him by arguing anyway? She wiggles slightly to be in the perfect alignment, and they perambulate off towards the Twelfth.

Castle is delighted with life. He’ll be able to look at every tiny detail without the ominous hostility of Kate’s co-workers, and by the time he’s done he’ll have it all imprinted on his capacious and accurate memory. Then his book will be _real_. All the subtle touches that will give it authenticity will be there. It’s all falling into place.

Beckett watches with amusement as Rick bounces round the bullpen like a demented rubber ball. He looks at _everything_ , and even tries the coffee, though he spits it out after the first sip. He pokes into the break room, and a conference room; tries out the chairs and the desks and has to be restrained from fiddling with LT’s novelty pen holder; demands to be shown the interrogation rooms and then wants to be interrogated.

“Interrogated?”

“Yeah. I need to know what it feels like. Is it scary, or is it just unnerving, or is it different if you’re a witness not a suspect?”

“This isn’t a role play or a TV show, you know.”

“C’mon. Just for a few minutes?”

“Oh, whatever. What do I suspect you of?”

“Murder, of course. Um… I murdered my overly dramatic and profoundly nosy mother. So you allege,” he adds quickly. “I haven’t really.”

“How do I know?”

“Er…. That’s not fair, Kate! Of course I didn’t. Why are you” –

“Sit down there. In here, I ask the questions.”

Her face has completely changed, back to the cold hostility of their first meeting. Shocked, Castle sits down with a hard thump.

“When did you last see your mother?”

“Uh… this morning.”

“When?”

“Uh…actually last night.”

“Lie number one. Which was it?”

“Last night,” Castle flusters.

“Where?”

“At home. She was drinking my best wine,” he says aggrievedly.

“Does she do that often?” A hint of empathy.

“Yeah.”

“It annoys you, doesn’t it?” More empathy

“Yeah.”

“Enough to kill her?” lashes out.

“No!”

“I think that’s enough, Rick.”

It sure is. He’s squirming and guilty already, and he hasn’t actually done anything more than raise an eyebrow or make a sarcastic remark to his mother – and he didn’t even do that last night.

“That’s scary,” he says, and thinks very privately that if he can convey that passion and sense of intimidation in print he’ll have another million-seller. As long as Kate never directs it at him for real. He’d wilt like a leaf in a blast furnace.

“Criminals aren’t usually shrinking violets. Do you still want to see Observation?” she offers.

“Yeah. I think I’d like to be on the good guys’ side of the glass.” Definitely. Kate is seriously terrifying and she wasn’t even doing it for real. He follows her out and round.

“Wow. That’s amazing. Can you hear too?”

“Yep. Usually if we’re in the box with a suspect the other will be in here, in case they spot something we don’t. Cross-checking, I guess, but we don’t think of it like that.” She pauses. “Have you seen enough?”

“Yeah. That’s been great. I know so much more now. I’ve just got a few more questions…”

“No more questions tonight.”

“Tomorrow?” Tomorrow night, when he’ll have incorporated all of this into his plan and skeleton and made notes and let it all soak in.

“Let’s see. If another body doesn’t drop.” She casts him a sidelong glance from under her eyelashes. “Um… Ryan and Espo might want to apologise…”

“Late tomorrow afternoon, if you aren’t busy with a body.” He suddenly has an idea. “If you had a new body, could I come along?”

“What? No. Crime scenes aren’t public property. It’s… disrespectful to the dead. And you’d get in the way. I need quiet to feel the scene and understand the corpse. You ask too many questions – and before you start to pout” –

“I do _not_ pout” –

“You _so_ do – you’d never be able to keep quiet. Never.   You ask questions at a million a minute.” Her eyes glint mischievously. “When you’ve slowed down. See, you’re pouting already.” She pauses. “Anyway, most likely the body would drop when you’re at work, and how would you explain that to your boss?”

Castle thinks very quickly. “She wouldn’t like it, for sure.” Gina never likes it when he’s not writing.

“Well then. Hardly anyone makes money from writing, so you need to keep your day job.”

He can’t do that. He killed off Storm. Not that anyone knows that, yet. They’ll find out in a few weeks. When he gets round to the edits, when it goes to print, when the carousel of readings and signings and PR starts to spin again. He doesn’t want to go back to Storm. Storm’s _over_.

“If you can get off work, come by around half past five, six. I’ll let you know if it’s a problem. The boss’ll be at 1PP, so no chance he’ll throw you out.”

He smiles, beautifully. “That’d be great. Thank you.” He pauses. “I think I’d better get home. Can I walk you to the subway?”

“My car’s here.”

“Walk you to your car?”

“Okay. Thank you. Um… I could give you a ride?”

“No, it’s okay. I’m in the other direction from you.”

She shrugs. “Up to you.”

Phew. There’s no way he can keep his real identity secret if she sees his block. But he’ll see her tomorrow, and ideas are fizzing in his head. Even if she had given him a ride he wants to write, not be sociable. Not even with Kate. He _needs_ to write.

He hastens to the subway, lost in creative dreams, hurries home, manages five minutes’ conversation with his mother and daughter, and disappears to his study, impatiently opening his document and then burying himself in the story. His lead character’s backstory falls into place: a tragically murdered mother, a grieving father hiding in work, a daughter trying to find answers while remembering her mother: all the while fleshing out the case that’s the main plot, adding the touches of realism from his evening’s visit, straining to show his readers the power of interrogation and the outright terror that his lead character inspires. Yet again, he writes for most of the night, wakes briefly to breakfast with his daughter, sleeps till noon, and writes yet more. He can’t control the frantic outpouring of words and plot.

When his phone cheeps cheerfully the next day with his reminder to call Jenna Cournat, he’s loath to stop. But… Kate’s not his possession, and he can hardly install her in his study, unlike his book. He finishes the paragraph, saves and backs up into the bargain, has a sudden thought and writes another hundred words, and then re-saves. Only then does he dial.

“Jenna, hello?”

“Jenna, it’s Rick Castle. I had an idea.”

“Mhm?”

“That fundraiser? If I made a donation, do you think someone would check off all the names who _didn’t_ buy that copy of Casino Royale, against the final guest list? And then could I see about the remaining names?”

There is a strange silence.

“Sure,” Jenna says uncertainly. “How much were you thinking of?”

“Ten thousand?” He would pay fifty thousand, if only he can find his book again.

“Why, _surely_ ,” she enthuses. “I’ll get someone started on it right away. How would you like to donate?”

“I’ll drop in a check this afternoon.”

He writes it out instantly. What’s the point of having more millions than he knows what to do with if he can’t use it for something that really, really matters to him? He returns to his writing, setting another alarm so that he can go via Jenna’s fundraising offices on the way to the Twelfth Precinct.

* * *

“Beckett, that Rick Rodgers guy is here again.”

“Thanks. Send him up.”

There is a noticeable delay before he reaches Beckett’s floor.

“Couldn’t you find the elevator?”

His ears turn pink. “I was looking round the entry. All the different people…” He gets no further before the man with no taste in clothes sidles up.

“Um… Rick?”

“Yeah?”

“Look, man, er… um… I’m sorry ‘bout the other day. Didn’t mean…um…”

“Okay.” He smiles. The cop… oh yes, Ryan… smiles back, tentatively.

“So…um…d’you wanna ask me anything? Beckett can be a bit…um…” – she glares fearsomely – “intense.”

“Yeah. That’d be great. Now?”

“I could use a coffee.”

The two men wander off to the break room. Beckett shrugs and leaves them to it. Across the bullpen, Esposito is head down in prints and DNA, frowning fit to wrinkle his skull.

“Do you want some coffee?”

“No thanks. I tried it and it’s vile. How do you drink that stuff?”

“It’s hot and it has caffeine.”

“And strychnine,” Castle adds with venom.

Ryan shrugs. “Caffeine. Hot. And free. And always there.”

“What d’you mean?”

“If a case is hot, we don’t go home. If you’re Beckett, you sometimes don’t go home even if it’s not hot, if she’s thinking hard.”

“No sleep?”

“See that couch?”

Castle looks, and just about doesn’t shudder. Kate _sleeps_ on that? He wouldn’t sleep on that without a biohazard suit.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Really? It looks like it belongs in the city’s refuse dump. He turns his back on it, quickly, in case rabid rats pile out of it and eat him alive. “How’d you become a cop?”

“Always wanted it. My brother’s in private security, but that’s chancy and, well, you can’t turn down clients too often, you know…?” Castle nods, sympathetically. “I’d rather be a cop. You’re always on the right side, that way. Anyway, did my time in uniform, then I went into Narcotics.”

“You mean drug busts, that sort of thing?”

“Yeah, but then the brass wanted to get into one of the gangs, and I fitted the profile, and I was new so no-one knew my face yet, and so I went undercover.”

Castle goggles. “That’s _awesome_ ,” he gasps. “How long for? How did you do it? How did you live like that and never give it away? I can’t imagine keeping a secret like that for so long.”

Ryan blushes. “You live it. You…um… you have to stay absolutely in the story. Like acting, but if you drop out of character you die. Literally die.”

“Quite an incentive.”

“Damn straight.” Just for an instant Ryan’s baby face twists. Castle stays quiet. “Anyways, after we got them, that was me ruined for undercover. I was known, and you can’t have that. So I was looking around a bit, and I heard there was a space here, and, well, Espo and Beckett were cool with me so I transferred.”

“They were partners already? And they wanted a third?”

“Yeah. Beckett was there first. She’s senior.” Castle hides his surprise. Espo looks older, and he’d assumed… never assume, idiot! “But… they’re sometimes a bit too alike, and they needed a” – he wriggles uncomfortably – “buffer, sometimes. Anyway, it worked. We’ve been a team for years.”

Castle wanders back out of the break room to Kate’s desk, and announces his presence with a gentle tap near her papers.

“You done?” she asks.

“Yeah. Interesting.”

“What was interesting?” Espo slouches up.

“Ryan’s story.”

“Him? Mine’s just as interesting,” Espo declares.

“You’re the one who got in his face,” Kate points out sardonically.

“Okay. Maybe I was a bit…”

“Out of line?”

“O- _kay_. Yeah.” He looks mildly shamefaced. “Anyway,” he re-inflates, “why don’t we take Rick here to a bar and he can hear _my_ story. I’m more interesting than Ryan.”

Kate rolls her eyes. Ryan trots up just in time to hear that. “You are not,” he quibbles.

“Save it for the bar.” Kate’s cool tone of authority stops the two men quarrelling instantly. “Where are we going?”

“The Grafton,” Espo says very quickly. Kate rolls her eyes again.

As the beers roll in, round after round, conversation loosens up, and by the end of the evening they’re all pals together – and Castle has another bucket-load of inspiration for the night’s writing. He’s even discovered that Espo is Esposito.

* * *

“Mr Castle? It’s Jenna Cournat.”

“Yes?”

“We whittled down that list for you, and there are only ten guests where it’s not clear if they bought a book.” She pauses. “That’s a lot less than I expected, I have to say. It was a really successful evening. Now, we can’t tell you who they are – confidentiality, you know – but if you wanted, we could call them and ask if they bought your Casino Royale.”

Castle is stunned. “Yes. Please. Look, if you can do that – and if you find the buyer, would you ask them to meet me so I can talk to them myself? – I’ll add another five to the cause.”

“Wow. You must really want this book back.”

“Yeah. It was a present long ago, and, well, sentimental value, you know?”

“I get it. Why, I have a necklace that my grandma gave me and I’d be just devastated if I lost it. I’d take my apartment apart to try and find it.”

“Exactly. Thanks, Jenna. I really appreciate your help.”

“We’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Castle bounces to his laptop, light of heart and of fingers, and turns all that happiness into screeds of fluent, focused story. He hasn’t been this inspired since his first Storm.

Later that afternoon he’s disturbed by the phone.

“Rick Castle?”

“Mr Castle, it’s Jenna again. We found the buyer.”

“You did? That’s great! Who is it, and will they speak to me?”

“Yes, they will. Took a bit of persuading that we were sincere and it really was you, but they’ll meet you.”

“So what’s the name? Phone number? When?”

“It’s a Detective Kate Beckett” – and Castle’s heart crashes to the floor. Jenna reads off the number, but he barely listens, for, after all, he has that number already.

“Thank you.” He manages to fake effusion, “I’ll drop the check in later.” Jenna rings off on a cloud of thanks and Castle stares at his desk, utterly confounded. How could the universe do this to him? He can get back his book, and lose Kate, or keep Kate, and lose his book.

Or.

If Kate bought his book, then she must be a fan. A fan would want to meet celebrity Rick Castle: man-about-town, rich playboy, gossip-column staple and everybody’s dream. Rick Castle is nothing like Rick Rodgers. So Rick Castle could meet Kate, charm her, and then disappear again, and Rick Rodgers can keep his Kate –

Hang on. Keep his Kate? What? How? _That_ snuck up on him. He hasn’t so much as kissed her properly and he’s thinking _his Kate_? Ohmigod. Ohmigod.

But a little voice in his head says _Oh my God YES!_ , and then slaps him upside the head for not realising earlier.


	7. Chapter 7

A week later, in which he’d second-guessed himself every other minute and hasn’t seen Kate at all owing to a sudden surge of murders, Castle thinks himself into his full PR schmooze persona, and picks up the house phone to Kate. He’d only just stopped himself using his cellphone, which would have blown the gaff in one go.

“Beckett,” clips down the line.

“Ms Beckett, this is Rick Castle,” he oozes, notably and consciously deeper and smoother than his usual voice. There is a very strange noise. “I understand you bought a book of mine at the AA fundraiser about a month ago. That book was not for sale. I wondered if we could meet to talk about whether you’d be prepared to give it back in exchange for something else?”

Another very strange noise. Finally, feebly, “ _You_ are Richard Castle? And you want to _meet_? Me?”

“Yes. You can check my bona fides with Jenna Cournat at the AA fundraising office, if you like,” he says with a slight edge of arrogant don’t-you-know-me?

“That won’t be necessary.” Kate sounds a tad irritated. “When and where?”

Castle had thought about this carefully. Somewhere that celebrity Castle would be seen. “The Pegu Club. Time – up to you.”

“Eight?”

“Perfect. I look forward to meeting you,” he closes suavely.

Phew. Now to look as little like office drone Rick Rodgers as possible. He searches his closet and finds designer dress pants which he’s never liked because they make him look fatter, a pure cotton shirt that looks like it – and it did – cost a fortune, and a light cashmere mix jacket, all of which scream slightly show-off wealth. Likewise, he uses aftershave, with which he’s never previously bothered when he sees Kate – she might recognise Ambre Topkapi, though it’s unlikely, but he won’t take the chance – and fusses with gelling his hair in a very ruggedly trendy fashion.

In preparation, he’d not shaved this morning, which he knows will produce a bad-boy, well-publicised slick of designer stubble. A tiny amount of stealing his mother’s make-up alters his visage by a similarly tiny fraction: just enough for him to look heavier around the jaw and face, a thick t-shirt under the shirt does the same for his torso. It’s all about subtlety, but she won’t be expecting Rick Rodgers so as long as he stays celebrity Rick Castle she’ll never know.

His mother may be the famous actor – but he’s pretty good at it when he has to be.

* * *

Beckett marches into the Pegu Club with a sharp click of heels, wishing she had her shield and gun instead of a stylish dress and purse, containing the book (which she’d had to search out, and hadn’t even bothered opening). Ridiculously, she’d felt the need to dress up, which has done nothing to calm the flock of vampire butterflies gnawing at her guts. She’d rather be meeting Rick, but he’d said he’d had to work late – some deadline or other – and anyway, this is _Richard Castle_ , whose books had got her through the worst days and whose books _still_ get her through when she needs a little help, a little reminder of the good times, a little memory of her mother to comfort her in the dark days which come with her job.

The hostess shows her to a small table with a comfortable couch, of which she takes possession. She’s on time. She peruses the cocktail menu in the dim light, and doesn’t order. She can’t believe this is really happening, and the small, cynical part of her mind which isn’t squealing like a fan girl is not at all convinced that it isn’t a Candid Camera prank, so she’s not going to lay out good money on poisonously coloured drinks.

She pulls up something to read on her phone, sits back, and manages to appear perfectly at ease, as if she visited places like this every day of the week. Several moments later, there is fuss and noise and bustle moving across the floor. It really _is_ Richard Castle. She almost forgives the lateness. She’s meeting _Richard Castle_.

His personality arrives about four strides before he does. The toothy, commercial smile would light Times Square, though she has to admit it’s very attractive.   As is he, in an expensively dressed, knows-his-own-worth sort of way, with designer stubble.

“Ms Beckett? Hey.” If it wasn’t for the voice, she’d almost think… but no. Rick wouldn’t do that. And now he’s closer, he’s definitely a few pounds heavier.

“Hi,” she says, and tries not to be overwhelmed by the projected star quality. “I brought your book.”

“Thanks. Can I buy you a drink, and we can talk for a bit?” He looks her over overly appreciatively. Of course it’s nice to be appreciated by a superstar, but… that’s being a little obvious. A little too close to a leer.

“Of course.” She fumbles in her purse and produces the book. “Here you are.”

“Thanks.” The blinding smile reappears. “What would you like in return? I already offered you a drink, but dinner? Or an autograph? A signed book?” He regards her through knowing blue eyes, clearly happy with what he sees. “What sort of a drink would you like?”

His voice is exactly what she would have expected. Deep (deeper than Rick’s), smooth and sexy. What it is not, however, is warmly affectionate or friendly: there’s an almost-undertone of lubricity which isn’t quite there when she listens. It’s all style, and she hasn’t yet seen any substance.

“Vodka tonic, please,” she says. Richard Castle summons a hostess with a brief flick of eyes – Beckett supposes she should be relieved he didn’t click his fingers – and orders for both of them. She’s less grateful than she should be. A traitorous little thought says she’d rather be with Rick Rodgers. She squashes it.

“So, Ms Beckett – what’s your first name?”

“Kate. And it’s Detective. Not Ms.”

His eyes widen. It’s the first half-sincere gesture he’s made, she thinks, and squashes that as well. “Really? A cop? You guys do an amazing job. What sort of a cop?”

“Homicide.”

“Wow.”

She’s almost liking this aspect of him, as the drinks are delivered.

“Do you have to shoot people?” It almost sounds eager.

“We prefer not to,” she snips, back to uncomfortable. “The paperwork is horrendous and it looks bad on TV.”

He blinks. Beckett gets the very clear impression that nobody ever calls him out on anything. “Oh,” he says, disappointedly, and switches the smile back on. “What do you do when you’re not working?”

“Run, read.” It sounds boring.

“What do you read?” He’s clearly expecting the answer _your books_.

“Everything. Classics, romance, thrillers. Whatever suits me at the time.” His smile loses a few watts.

“Well, thank you for bringing back my book. What can I do in return? Obviously I’ll refund you, but would you like a signed book of mine?”

Suddenly, she doesn’t. She doesn’t actually _like_ this man. The books are brilliant. The man…not so much.

He slides a fraction closer, and turns the wattage back up. “Has anyone ever told you, you have beautiful eyes?”

The whole occasion is leaving Beckett uncomfortably confused: he’s just enough like _her_ Rick that she wants to like him, and the books have been her salvation more than once. But his last words prick both her pride and her temper. She loathes being hit on.

“No. Most people are a little more subtle,” she flicks back. “I’m not some groupie. You told me that book should never have been in the sale, and it’s got sentimental value to you.” She looks him up and down, without any approval. “I have to say I’m surprised. You don’t look the type.” She drains her glass. “Thanks for the drink. You can make a donation to AA in return.”

“Feisty,” he oozes. She only just stops her fingers sliding to her hip, where her holster should be.

“Goodnight, Mr Castle.”

Last she sees, he’s flirting with the hostess and pulling out his phone, no doubt consulting his little black book. She drags home, and wishes she’d never met Richard Castle, who’s just another celebrity.

Castle stays in the Pegu Club long enough to be paparazzi snapped, flirt outrageously with several women who accost him and generally ensure that Page Six will be happy and populated, tomorrow. He just hopes he hasn’t overplayed his hand. Kate had sounded pretty pissed with him. Still, she’d never suspected he was her friend Rick, and now he is dead certain that she has no interest in celebrity conquests. He bounces home, thoroughly satisfied with the success of his plan, and ignoring the minor niggle which tells him that an irritated Kate is a bad thing. He considers an appropriate amount for a while, and then writes out another substantial check to AA.

Casino Royale watches him benevolently from pride of place on the bookshelves, right where he can look up and see it restored.

Beckett throws herself into work the following day to avoid having to admit just how much of a disappointment meeting Richard Castle had been. It’s ridiculous, and she should have expected it. After all, he’s a celebrity, and no doubt that’s sufficient for him to get any pretty woman he wanted. Most of them probably hit on him. He’d just… oh, just admit it, she wanted him to be more like her Rick.

She taps out a text to her Rick, unwilling to speak to him, for the first time inviting him to meet her. Remy’s, as usual. Not some high-end club with expensive cocktails and glossy hostesses. Somewhere that suits _her_. Cop Kate Beckett. She doesn’t do glossy, or expensive, or celebrity. She does normal. Burgers, not Bellinis. And Rick Rodgers, not Richard Castle.

Oh. My. God.

What has she just thought?

Hell, yeah. Rick is real. Richard Castle wasn’t.

She turns back to chasing her clues and evidence with renewed ferocity, and takes out all her disappointed irritation on suspects and witnesses, as if each of them were the author.

* * *

“Hey, Kate,” Rick says happily, clearly and (more importantly) sincerely delighted to see her.

“Hey,” she smiles. So she thinks. After they order, she discovers that her normal control is obviously lacking.

“Something wrong?”

“Uh?”

“You don’t sound as cheerful as usual. Case not going well?”

“I want a break,” she grumps.

“C’mon. Tell me all about it. I’ve asked you a million questions, it must be your turn to talk.” He pats her hand, and then leaves his over hers.

“Just had a bit of a disappointment, that’s all. I’m fine.”

The server interrupts them to put down their orders, and disappears again.

“You don’t sound fine.” He shuffles round the booth, and ends up with an arm round her. “Hug,” he points out at her look.   “Good when you’re miserable.” She doesn’t protest. “Did a hot lead fizzle out?” His fingers press gently on her shoulder, and she droops into him.

“No.” She raises her eyes into warm blue. For once, he doesn’t say anything. Within his arm, she feels…able to talk. “About a month ago, I bought a second hand book at a fundraiser.” She doesn’t look at him, and doesn’t explain why she was there at all. “Turns out it belonged to Richard Castle, and he wanted it back. Sentimental value, I was told.” She bites that off. “So he called, and asked to meet to get it back. Last night.”

Rick makes a noise of amazement, and hugs a little tighter. She turns into his shoulder. “He was such a _disappointment_ ,” she chokes. “Just another celebrity who thought he was God’s gift. I didn’t expect anything else, but…. So I told him to make a donation and walked out. He…I wanted to like him, and he was just another jackass.”

“Why does it matter? If he’s just another irritating bigshot, leave him to Page Six and forget about him.”

“You don’t get it,” she sniffs, and hates herself for dissolving on Rick’s broad shoulder.

“So tell me the story.”

“The books… my mom got me into reading them. We used to discuss them. When her cases weren’t going well” –

“Your mom was a cop too?”

“No, she was an attorney. Defender. Fought for the little guy.” She sniffs again. Rick presses a serviette into her lax hand. “But right always won in the books, in the end. Sometimes that was all she needed to know, that right would eventually win.” She dabs at her face. “And then after she” – she stops, and gulps – “was _murdered_ , it was – the books – a way to remember her. Feel closer. Hope that it would still all come right in the end.” She wipes her face again. “The books were really important, and now… well, I didn’t expect anything different, but…”

She chokes on the last word, and stops.

It’s just as well that she’s pressed into his shoulder with her head down, because Castle can’t control his initial expression. Oh, _hell_. Oh God. If only he’d known that _before_ last night. He’d have played it differently. A lot differently. Kate is mumbling something.

“If only he’d been just a little more like you. He looked so much like you – heavier, but…he was horrible. Leering and tried to hit on me and totally insincere. Thought I’d want him just because he was a _star_.” The contempt blisters the table.

Oh God. Oh, _God_. How the _hell_ is he ever going to fix this? He’d only meant to make sure she couldn’t connect them, not that she would hate him.

“Oh, Kate,” he murmurs. “C’mere.” He cuddles her close, and pretends not to notice that she’s crying. “Who the author is doesn’t matter, as long as the book speaks to you.” He thinks for a minute, and absolutely does not mention Ian Fleming and _especially_ Casino Royale. “Like…um… Hemingway. I mean, he went from wife to wife and was a semi-alcoholic but the books are wonderful.”

He turns her firmly into his chest and simply pets, saying nothing more. No-one disturbs them.

Eventually Kate emerges, red-eyed and devoid of her usual eye liner. She drinks her milkshake, and slowly eats a few fries. Castle doesn’t take his arm away, and doesn’t mention that she’s totally tucked in. He eats his own dinner, which is tending to tepid, and stays quietly sympathetic until Kate’s made a decent attempt at finishing hers.

“Dessert?”

“Coffee, please.”

She looks small: pinched and cold. Castle cuddles her tighter. “C’mere,” he murmurs again. “Just enjoy the books and don’t worry about him. He doesn’t matter.”

She whispers something, which might have been _I wanted him to be like you_.

“You got me.” He drops a tiny kiss into her hair, and lays his cheek on the top of her head. Her arm tentatively comes around him. He tries another tiny kiss, and she eases, resting against him. “You got me,” he says again, and hopes that he can come up with a way to fix this, because he can’t pretend to be Rick Rodgers for ever.

“Yes.”

She looks up for the first time since this whole disastrous conversation began, eyes large in her pale face, and kisses his jaw, a soft, affectionate flick. He stares at her, then he leans down and softly, tentatively, places a single kiss on her lips, and draws back.

Tries to draw back. This is an appallingly bad idea and he’s got himself into a bad enough situation already but she’s opened to his lips and he can’t resist.

When they pull apart she looks as befuddled as he must do.

“Uh…” he blurts, which doesn’t really explain or help, especially when all he wants is to kiss her again, now, more, and never ever stop.

The decision is taken out of his hands an instant later, when she takes his mouth in one conquering swoop and he’s rolled up, horse, foot and guns, and surrenders without a shot being fired. Truth to tell, he doesn’t mind surrendering one tiny little bit. With Kate, he’s sure that it’s _he_ she wants. Not some over-hyped PR construct. Hearing her unvarnished view of his alter-ego (accent firmly on the _ego_ part of that), he doesn’t like himself much. It occurs to him that Richard Castle has become cocky, rather than confident; a jackass not a wiseass.

As she keeps kissing him, he stops thinking at all, and simply drowns in the sensations. He has enough sense not to take it further, but only just. She lifts off, and gazes at him in a way he hasn’t yet seen, soft and warm, with a hint of banked heat. He realises why when the server arrives – she must have heard it, though he can’t imagine how when she should have been as lost as he.

“Would you like desserts?”

“Coffee, please,” Kate says as calmly as if she hadn’t been fritzing his brain a second ago. “Latte.”

“Me too, please.”

The server disappears. Castle waits, and doesn’t make a move except to cuddle his Kate in and pet her hand, lost in his. She nestles in, and peeps up at him. He smiles.

“Does that mean this was a date?” he teases very gently. “Because if so, can I ask you on a date next time? I don’t feel you should get all the fun.”

Peep turns to eye-roll at his frivolity. “Is it really that important to your male ego?”

“Nothing to do with my male ego. If it were, I wouldn’t let you pay your share of dinner. I just don’t think it’s fair that you get to do all the fun of date-arranging and I have to wait by the phone.” He pouts plaintively. “I hate waiting for the phone to ring.”

Kate rolls her eyes again. “You have no patience,” she points out.

“Nope. But I haven’t asked you a single procedural question all evening, so I must have some empathy. Anyway” – he grins – “will you come on a date with me?”

“Do I have to dress up?”

“No. You can even wear your shield and gun, if it makes you happy. And I can _assure_ you we will not be going to some celebrity haunt. Or the Old Haunt,” he adds quickly.

They certainly won’t be going to a celebrity haunt. He’d be rumbled in an instant, and even his best bluff wouldn’t get past the first five people gate-crashing their date. Also, he’d likely need to pay on card, and all his cards are Castle-cards. Office drones don’t have platinum cards.

“Ugh. Not the Old Haunt, please.”

“Maybe not here, though? I know this little Italian restaurant, very quiet, if you like Italian?”

“Sounds good,” she says. “Text me the name and address, okay?”

“At least drink your coffee before you go home.”

“I _never_ forget to drink my coffee,” she says dryly. “Even during the zombie apocalypse I’ll remember to drink my coffee.”

Conveniently, the coffee arrives at that moment and is, indeed, drunk. When Castle puts down his share Kate fixes him with a steely glare.

“Put it away.”

“Uh?”

“If this is a date, and I asked you, then I pay.”

Castle stares. He can’t remember the last time anyone paid for him. In fact, no-one has ever paid for him.

“But I still get to walk you to the subway?”

She grins mischievously. “I’ll even let you walk me home.”

He throws his arms round her and kisses her soundly.

“Isn’t that supposed to be _after_ you walk me to my door?”

“We’ll get to that,” he murmurs.

Well, she is certainly going to get to _that_. The velvety baritone is doing some very strange things to her nerves, which were lively enough already after the kiss. If it wasn’t that making out in burger bars should be prohibited for the over-fourteens, she’d kiss him all over again.

“Let’s go,” she says, and takes his hand.


	8. Chapter 8

Kate lives in a fairly ordinary block not too far from the precinct – until she opens the door, without suggesting a goodnight kiss, and beckons him inside.

It’s – _cosy_. Plump couches, warm tones, casual but eclectic décor, massive bookshelves. No sharp edges, no hard angles. It’s exactly not what she’s like outside.

He has precisely two seconds to look around, before he realises that he’s walked her home, and every good first date ends with a kiss.

If only he’d got there first…

Kate’s arms are around his neck, her face is turned up – up? Oh, she’s kicked her shoes off – to his, and she’s proving that he is most definitely her conquest. Again. Maybe, though, he can do a little conquering of his own. He gathers her in, pressing her tightly against him, slides a hand into her hair and takes her mouth, explores and invades: a slow discovery that her mouth is perfectly sized to his, her lips addictive, her body fitted to his: every curve and lineament finding a matching space in him.

Her hands bite on his shoulders, a small hitch of surprise as she finds, he thinks, more muscle than she expected. He, deep in the exquisite feel of her mouth on his lips, instinctively untucks her t-shirt and starts to learn the smooth planes of her back, the texture of her skin, the small soft noises that she makes and the bend of her back as she flows into his touch. In turn, she explores beneath his shirt, a tiny scrape of nails, not painful, as she finds the strength in his shoulders and the muscle of his pecs, and he growls pleased noises in response.

She moves round and presses kisses along his jaw, into his neck; his hand finds the clasp of her bra – and stops.

“Kate?” he murmurs. “Are you okay with this?”

She stops, pulls back, and looks him full in the face, hands slipping to the small of his back in imitation of his – and then she leans back in, head on his shoulder, utterly at ease.

“Let’s see where it takes us,” she purrs.

The next second his shirt falls off. Okay. Right. That’s taking _us_ (there’s an _us_!) in a very definite direction.

And then her mouth nibbles quite wickedly on his earlobe and he stops thinking about any direction other than the one that’s the shortest route to her bed.

Beckett had more or less decided at the moment he kissed her in Remy’s that she was going to go for what _she_ wanted. And she wants Rick. The more he touches her and she touches him, the more it blazes: all backed up from that very first touch and ready to ignite. He’s fitter than she’d have expected, but she enjoys the sensation of strength surrounding her; wants the combination of the affection he’s previously shown and the desire that’s now roiling in his eyes. She kisses him hard again, pulls back for an instant.

“I’m clean,” she whispers, “and protected.”

“Me too.” He is. It’s been a little while, and he’s always careful – but he gets checked out, periodically. “But have you… because I don’t…”

“Um…”

The pause makes him unwarrantedly happy. If she has to think about it, then she’s hardly bringing guys home every other week – and she isn’t on the rebound, either. The first seems totally unlikely, but he doesn’t want to be a notch on her bedpost, however hot. The second – well, a little niggly thorn dissolves.

“I don’t know,” she admits, blushing luridly. Taking the initiative hadn’t fazed her, but the practicalities… she’s adorably cute when she blushes.

“I’m sure we can make each other happy whatever,” he grins, and in his first display of real initiative, whips off her t-shirt, takes her mouth, swings her up so she wraps legs around his waist and _oh_ she feels so good there: so right: he curves a big hand round under her rear and uses the other arm to hold her tightly against him.

And then he takes them to the only door that could possibly hide a bedroom, and she stands on her own two feet again, next to a queen size bed in palely patterned covers on which her dark hair will stand out like a panther on snow, and kisses him until he lays her down and slowly, tantalisingly, undresses her to her lacy underwear that isn’t at all what he expected but is astonishingly hot, and is then totally undone when she sits back up, runs her mouth from sternum to belt, and then divests him of pants.

Beckett sits back against her pillows and frankly admires. Fair’s fair: he’s staring at her, too. Without removing her gaze from him (she isn’t entirely sure that she could: he’s a _lot_ more rugged nearly naked) she opens the drawer of the nightstand and allows her fingers to roam the inside.

There are no boxes. There are no condoms. _Dammit!_

Rick follows the changes in expression. “None?” he says. “We’ll just have to improvise.”

“Improvise?”

His smile turns entirely predatory. “Improvise. See what you like. I know you like kissing, and I really like kissing you, so let’s start there.”

She does like kissing. She especially likes kissing when they are both nearly naked. She likes his weight and bulk pressing down and covering her. She thinks she likes his mouth moving over her jaw and round by her ear, but she’s trying too hard not to squirm frantically and squeak desperately really to analyse it.

And then she stops thinking at all, because he’s found a spot she didn’t know existed and surely the side of her neck isn’t a classically erogenous zone?

“You liked that,” he murmurs. “Should I do it again, or should I see what else you like?”

Clearly that was a rhetorical question, since he’s already decided on the answer. His lips – does he use lip balm? They’re astoundingly soft – are astoundingly mobile, flexible, and utterly _wicked_. They’ve sneaked down to her breasts and – _oh God how did he do that_? – are enjoying themselves. They must be. They keep returning for another go. They can have as many goes as they like, as long as she gets some goes at pleasing him in return _oh oh oh Rick!_

“You liked that, too,” he growls, in a deep furry baritone that strokes the inside of her skin. “I like you liking that.” She can’t answer, being too busy trying to decide if she still has all four limbs and a head. The only thing she can do is hold on to Rick until she can retaliate in kind.

That is, if she gets a chance to retaliate. Rick seems to have a mission in mind.   She can cope with a missionary, though one position would be boring – oh _God_ missionaries do _not_ do that.

Castle does have a mission in mind. Although he’s already decided that he could play with Kate’s beautiful, perfectly sized breasts (in or out of that scorchingly hot lacy bra) for hours without a single hint of boredom, he also considers that he should explore the other possibilities for some very adult kissing. Of course, the minor little detail that he adores giving good oral and that it generally has the most satisfactory results, has nothing to do with it. He slithers down the lean, toned lines of Kate’s stomach and takes a moment to appreciate the scorchingly hot lacy panties. Tastefully erotic, he’d call them.

And erotically tasting is exactly what he is going to do. He breathes gently over the fabric, not touching. She wriggles. He glides gentle fingertips over the delicate surface of her inner thighs, and she opens further for him to survey. Of course, surveying should be thorough, and involve all five senses. Hearing is already engaged. She’s making little sexy noises, which he intends to encourage. Smell: well, he can smell a hint of bodywash, but he can also smell the delicious aroma of aroused Kate. Sight: he doesn’t need that so much, but she’s still a beautiful sight, all hot and very bothered. Touch: he runs a featherlight finger over the fabric and she writhes and wriggles and finally he completes the set with taste, running his tongue lightly over fabric, flicking out from a kiss on each satin thigh. He plays with the fabric, adds touch to taste to move the silky material aside, and uses skill and experience to leave her so high he hopes she’ll never come down.

Improvisation is a wonderful thing, and so is post-orgasmic Kate. She’s lax and snuggly in the best possible way. Castle cradles her in, and daydreams about doing so more. Lots more. His daydream expands to include the magical provision of the absent condoms, the possibilities of the shower, the bed, waking up together…

_Oh my God that isn’t a daydream oh God Kate oh fuck just don’t ever stop ohhhhhhhhh Kate!_

She looks extraordinarily smug. He probably looks as if she removed his brain, though he’s pretty sure he’s grinning so widely he could tie a bow round the back of his head. She seems to be back in his arms, which is just as well because if she tries to run away now he will use her own handcuffs to attach her to his wrist and then swallow the key. Fortunately she is curled around him, and he is curled around her, all tangled together, warm and cosy and comfortable and perfectly suited to each other. Her breathing slows to match his, his eyes drift shut to match hers…

What the hell? What time is it? Where is he? Who’s he with?

And then some conscious thought filters in and he remembers that the warm body beside him, still tucked in, is Kate, who’s _his_ Kate, and they are really dating, and that might just have been the best night of his life ever. He indulges in some creepy staring, realises that it’s creepy peering through the gloom and he can’t actually see anything much at all, and pouts.

The he realises that he is out without a late pass, texts Alexis, sets his alarm for a time he really doesn’t want to visit from the post-sleep end – and then wriggles back down under the covers, tucking Kate in again as he goes.

He’s woken by his own alarm, which is overtaken by Kate’s.   She gets up far too early, he decides. Mornings are for sleeping, snuggling, and at least two other words beginning with S, which could usefully be combined, if only they could. Next time. Next time will be soon.

Beckett drags herself out of bed, for once not throwing herself headlong into the new day with new killers to chase down and put away. Waking next to Rick had given her some decidedly interesting ideas, most of which were likely at least misdemeanours. Unfortunately if she starts down that route, she’ll be late for work. Very late.

She tears herself away and into the shower, aware that Rick’s eyes haven’t left her for a moment. It puts a little sway in her hips, which puts a little heaviness in his breathing. Her shower is a tad cooler than normal, which achieves nothing except to add irritation to frustration.  

Rick takes a very fast shower, which leaves him quite adorably tousled. He sniffs his arm and makes a face.

“I smell of _cherries_ ,” he complains. “Cherries aren’t masculine.”

“Don’t you like cherries?”

“I like cherry smell on _you_. Not on me. My soap is sandalwood. Much more appropriate.”

“You’re talking about appropriate?” Beckett gapes. “After last night?”

He grins wolfishly. “It seemed – _appropriate_ – at the time.” He compounds his sins by hugging her. Without her heels, she leans neatly on his shoulder, and curves into him.

“Work,” she says briskly, and contradicts it instantly with a leisurely kiss designed to curl his toes and straighten his spine. Or somewhere like that. Whatever it was designed to do, it did. He reciprocates in kind.

“See you tonight?” he asks hopefully, bouncily puppyish.

“Hmmm,” she teases. “I might catch a case.”

“That’s okay. I’ll bring you takeout.”

“If we’re busy, you can’t distract us by asking questions.”

Rick regards her pathetically. “But…”

“The city pays us to solve murders. That’s your taxes,” she adds didactically.”

Castle does not say _yes, and I pay lots of taxes_. “I guess,” he droops. “But I still wanna see you later. I promised you Italian.”

“You did. Let’s see how work goes. Call me later.” She shoos him out, locks up, and strides off to work. Castle watches the stride with considerable appreciation and takes himself home, where he arrives just in time to put breakfast together, and then writes a series of scorching scenes, not one of which would be suitable for unexpurgated publication. He saves them into a very private folder, and then tones the least scorching down by a factor of at least one hundred and inserts it into his half-fleshed skeleton.

He regards the current draft happily, and then picks up the phone.

“Gina, it’s Rick.”

“Rick? Does this mean you’ve finally come to your senses? Where are those edits?”

“Never mind the edits. I’ve got a new book. Half written.”

“What?”

“New. Book.”

“Great,” she says flatly. “Now how about the old one? I need those edits so we can make the publication date without me having to work 24/7 for the next month.”

“Gina, stop talking about the edits. I’ve got a new book. New character. It’s going to be a series. Do you want to know or should I go find a different publisher?”

There is a stunned silence. “You wouldn’t.”

A much longer silence, which Gina breaks. “Okay. Send me it. But we still have to finish Storm Fall. Everything’s in place, we just need those final edits.”

“Everything’s in place?” Castle repeats, confused.

“Yeah. All the publicity, all the signings, the launch party… Rick, we _talked_ about this. Well. I talked. You pretended to listen. Paula set it all up and you need to get with the program. It’s not like I can hire a lookalike.”

“When’s this starting?”

“Publication date is” – there’s a short pause broken by tapping – “a month from now. Usual arrangements: a big launch party, then readings and signings in New York, then touring. Paula’s got the schedule, since I guess you’ve lost it?” Castle hears _deliberately_ inserted before ‘lost’. She’s likely not wrong there. “I’ll ask her to send you it.” He hears _again_ , with feeling, after that.

“Okay. Look,” he concedes, “I’ll try to finish” – start – “the edits by the weekend.

“Please,” she says. “I need sleep.”

“Okay, okay. I get it.” There is a sceptical noise. “I do!”

“Okay. Bye. Send me that outline.”

“Half a book, Gina! It’s a lot more than an outline.” Another sceptical noise. “Pressing Send now.”

Half a second later there is a surprised squawk. “You really meant it. I’ll take a look now – but I won’t tell you anything till you send those edits through.” Castle growls. “No. Bye.” She rings off. Castle growls much more loudly at the phone, and then, with extreme reluctance, turns to the edits. Gina has ways of making him work. It’s another good reason they divorced.

Some hours of hard work and several gallons of coffee later, he has, much to his surprise, worked his way through well over half the edits. Much to his irritation, Gina’s comments are (as ever) accurate, perceptive, and improve the overall writing. It doesn’t make him like her, or the process, any better. He likes her even less when he looks at his watch, finds that it’s after five, frantically calls the Italian restaurant where he goes when he wants to be incognito with Alexis and where he can absolutely trust the owners and staff to call him Rick Rodgers and nothing else, is totally relieved to get a table, and then equally frantically calls Kate.

“Hey, Rick,” she says calmly. She doesn’t sound worried at all.

“Dinner,” he babbles out. “I booked and it’s all okay and here’s the restaurant. It’s called Carvoso and the table’s in my name for seven and” –

“Slow down. What’s the hurry? I didn’t expect you to call till early evening. It’s not even six.”

Castle stops. “Oh.”

“Did you think it was later? Must have been a busy day, counting those beans.” He can hear the smirk in her voice.

“My boss was on my back. Head down all day. I hate deadlines,” he grumbles.

“I like the bills being paid,” Beckett flashes back. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Anyway, Carvoso. Seven. Let me know if you’re running late.”

“Doubt it,” she humphs. “No break at all. See you later.”

* * *

Promptly at seven Beckett arrives in a slightly shabby, old-fashioned restaurant which nevertheless manages to be wholly warm and welcoming. A silver-haired man is at the door. “Detective Beckett?” he greets her, which is surprising, escorts her across the floor to a table laid for two, and smiles at her. He’s about to say something more when the door opens again and Rick enters.

“Rick,” the man opens, “you’re late. What have I taught you about inviting beautiful women for dinner?”

Rick blushes and then smiles affectionately. “Paolo, the only other beautiful women I’ve ever brought here are my mother and my daughter. Stop making Kate think that I’m a lothario.”

Paolo laughs and hugs him. “Good to see you back. You should eat here more often.”

“I would, but you feed me so well I’d be the size of an elephant.” Rick turns to Kate. “Paolo and Maria make the best Italian food anywhere.” He leans down and kisses her cheek. “Hello,” he murmurs. The tone slithers straight through her skin and seeps into her nerves.

“Hey,” she manages. Paolo smiles fondly at both of them. No question but that he’s drawn some pretty accurate conclusions.

Rick turns back to Paolo. “Are you going to let Kate see a menu?” She blinks. “Paolo never lets me see a menu. He just produces wonderful food. But – I don’t know, are you allergic to anything?”

“Not if you don’t count dreadful coffee.”

“Anything you really hate?”

“Nope. Except bad coffee.”

“Then you do not need a menu,” Paolo finishes grandly, and sweeps off as if he were the maitre d’ at the Ritz.

“Okay, then…”

“Don’t worry. It’ll be delicious. It always is. It means he likes you. If he didn’t approve” – Beckett raises an eyebrow – “He’s protective, okay? He’s known me for… urgh. Ah. Since I was a teen.”

“What?”

“Mother used to bring me here if she’d had a lucky break.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, he approves of you. So he should,” Rick says with a tinge of possessiveness.

“Of course I do,” Paolo says, causing both of them to jump. “A Detective? A good job. And she’s beautiful. Now as long as she’s as smart as you too, it will be perfect.”

“Good to know you approve,” Beckett says dryly.

Paolo acquires a worldly-wise expression. “Very important for you to be smart and independent. It will keep Rick’s feet on the ground.”

Beckett grins at him. “He does get a little enthusiastic.” Rick squawks.

“Ah, yes. But it’s very charming.”

“Like a puppy.”

Rick squawks again. “I’m not a puppy!” he complains.

“Hmmm,” she says mischievously. “You lollop around, nosing into everything and bouncing whenever it’s interesting, chase after trails and keep coming back… totally a Labrador.”

Paolo has slipped away.

“You’d be a…” Rick thinks for a bit. “You know, I can’t think of a dog that suits you. I think you’re more like a cat.” His eyes sparkle. “Cool, calm, intelligent – independent. Um… Persian. They always look as if they know things that you don’t.”

“I do,” she smirks. Rick snickers, and his fingers sneak over the table to find hers, which twine into his. They jump apart as Paolo returns with wine, grissini, and olives.


	9. Chapter 9

“This is amazing,” Kate says, one bite into her appetiser.

“Told you so,” Castle says very smugly, and watches her dispose of it.  Conversation is sacrificed – at least on Kate’s part – to the excellence of the cuisine.

Paolo breezes up and removes the plates.  “You enjoyed it?”

“Yes.  That was delicious.  What was it?”

He taps his nose.  “Secret family recipe.”

“He never tells me, either,” Castle complains.

“You can’t keep secrets, Rick.  You’ll share my recipe and then who’ll come to my restaurant?”

“Everyone, if I tell them it’s yours.”

Paolo regards him disapprovingly.  “No, no.  They would make it at home and never come to find out how it should taste.”  He frowns and then smiles beatifically.  “Now, the next course.”

The entrée is even more delicious than the appetiser.  Even Castle’s conversational flow is halted until they have savoured every morsel of the full glory of the food and wine.  Paolo ghosts up, and ghosts away again with the cleaned platters, returning after a little while with dessert and a different wine which he promises will be like nothing they have ever tasted.  He’s right.

Kate stares at her empty plate as if she’s hoping that it will magically refill with dessert.  Castle entirely agrees.  Paolo and Maria have gone all out tonight, and even by their standards it was exceptional.

“So, did you enjoy that?” Paolo enquires.

“It was perfect,” Castle says.

“I’ll bring you coffee,” he smiles, and theatrically kisses his fingers.  “It will be great coffee, of course.”

It is. 

Behind Paolo, a curvy woman with silver threading through still-black hair bustles out from the kitchen.

“Rick,” she fusses.  “Rick, you are a naughty boy.  You don’t come, you don’t call, why do you not eat here any more?”

“I’m here now,” he apologises.

“And your mother?  Is she so busy acting that she can’t come by?”

Castle sees the potential for disaster opening before him.

“I hope you haven’t abandoned us.”

“Never, Maria.”  With considerable relief, he sees Paolo nudge Maria, and more revelations are averted.

“You must come more often.  Bring your friend.”  Maria looks Kate up and down, and smiles.  “She will keep you in order.”

Paolo whisks Maria away, and Castle relaxes.

“Your mother acts?”

“Tries,” Castle says with feeling.  “Every day’s another step to another failed audition.”  He sees Kate relax, and breathes again.  It’s perfectly true that his mother attends many failed auditions.  It’s also true that she succeeds at many auditions, and that not all the productions are unknown.  It would be just his luck if Kate were to recognise the name.  He finishes his coffee and settles the bill with Paolo.

“May I walk you home, Kate?” he asks.

She quirks an eyebrow.  “I thought this was a date?”

“Yes?”

“You have to walk me home,” she teases.  “It’s in the rules.  Good etiquette says that after a date you should walk me home.”  Her eyes widen.  “So next time, it’s my turn, and I’ll walk you home.”

“Nuh-uh,” Castle blurts out before his brain catches up.  Kate’s eyebrow hits the ceiling.  “I’m not inflicting my family on you.”  He talks faster.  “You don’t like all my questions, but my mother is me on speed when it comes to interrogation and my daughter can be a little…um…protective and I’m not letting them treat you like your two co-workers treated me.”  Her eyebrow descends.  “You will meet them.  Just…not yet, okay?  I don’t want them messing this up.”

_And maybe I’ll have worked out how to fix the tiny little technical problem that I’m not who you think I am and you can’t stand the other me, before my loft and my family blow it wide open._

“Okay,” she says.  “My dad would do the same to you.”

Castle fakes terror.  Mostly.  Meeting Kate’s dad might be scary.  “Now do I get to walk you home?” he entices, and holds her jacket for her to wriggle into.  She doesn’t move.

“I don’t know, Rick.  I think Paolo might be a better option.  He has the best food.”  A snicker arrives from the kitchen.

“But I give better hugs.”  His voice drops and deepens.  “And I eat well at any time.”  Kate chokes.  Castle smiles sweetly and draws her in close.  “I do love the burgers at Remy’s,” he adds.  She elbows him.  “Ow!  What did you think I meant?”  He observes her pink cheeks.  “Tut-tut, Detective.  All this dealing with lowlifes has made you suspicious.”

“Dealing with you makes me suspicious,” she snips.

Castle steers his Kate out of the restaurant and towards the subway.  If he weren’t Rick Rodgers, he’d have hailed a cab, and spent the journey in affectionate flirtation and some well-judged kissing.  Since he is Rick Rodgers, he’ll at least manage hugs.  PDA – ugh.  Unless he orchestrates it, of course… oh.  Ugh.  What had he thought: he’s become cocky, not confident.  Ugh.  Richard Castle is really not very nice any more.

He cuddles Kate in on the train, and the walk from the subway to her apartment, and then politely waits for her to invite him in as she had last night.  She smirks wickedly at him as she pauses – and then waves him in.

Tonight, he’s prepared – and pounces, before she can, wrapping her into his chest and owning her mouth before she can steal his.  This was _his_ date, and this will be _his_ kiss to her, not hers to him.  Not yet.  He’s pretty certain they’ll get to that, but first he’s going to kiss her.

He does kiss her: gently, inexorably commanding entrance, and on it being granted turns his kiss hard, passionate and demanding.  _Be mine_ , it orders, _be mine here, now_.  But his Kate is no pushover, and she fights back and makes demands of her own, the most irresistible of which are her fine, elegant fingers wandering under his shirt and over his back.  He steadies, immovable, and untucks another of those soft, silky tees she wears: his own broad palm at her back to press her in where he needs to have her. 

Tonight, if she’s willing, he _will_ have her.  He’s taken care to ensure that the _practicalities_ are, well, taken care of.  His clever, experienced hand slips round to the front, dextrously unbuckles her belt, slips her pants button open, the zipper down, and then slips back to her spine, from where he stretches the whole width of his span right around her back and sneakily pushes downward.

Her pants puddle on the floor.  Castle’s hand glides down to cup her ass, and finds to its delight that his hand and her ass fit together so perfectly that some benevolent god must have meant them for each other.  She leans a little away from him, which is totally unfair – but _oh oh oh_ all his buttons and belt and zippers are undone and she’s kissing all the way down his chest and everything is falling off as she does _oh God oh God_ and _oh fuck_ he’s in the warm wet haven of her mouth and reduced to a melted mess and _oh fuck_ that is just not _fair_.  She’s kneeling in front of him but she’s the only one in control here.

He is absolutely not in control of anything at all about her.  And then he isn’t in control of his body, brain or knees.  He might have lost consciousness for a second.  He is still, just about, standing.  Kate is also standing, and smirking evilly at him. 

He takes a further few seconds to recover his brain from fugue, his body from stunned delight, and his knees from their vacation in Wobble-land – and then he seizes her, swings her up into his arms, carries her off to her bedroom, strips her in a minimum of movements and leaves her flat on her back on the bed, half laughing and totally aroused.

Then he falls over her and takes her laughing mouth hard and possessively and with broad fingers simultaneously teases sensitive nerves and soaked flesh and takes that too and she writhes and moans and shatters.  He keeps her tightly cradled until her eyes open and she snuggles into him and gives a small, satisfied murmur.

When small, satisfied murmurs turn to light, teasing kisses, Castle thinks it’s a reasonable time to ask the key question.

“Um… I made sure I had some protection.  But since you undressed me out there, you’re going to have to stop that so I can find it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll improvise.”

She kisses him again, in a very don’t-you-dare-move way, and pulls him in.  Clearly improvisation is acceptable.  He takes advantage of size and bulk to roll her over, trap her hands in one of his, and take full advantage of the bounty presented to him.  He’s already addicted to the curves and pink tips of her breasts: the way they’re completely within his hand, the way she curves and arches and squirms as he laves and sucks.

He’s also addicted to her scent and taste as he moves lower: the rise of her hips and the way her hands knot in his hair because his grip has to be around her to hold her open to his erotic lash, whipping her on until she’s cried out, “ _Rick_ ,” and climaxed again.

She smiles sleepily at him when she resurfaces, answering his lazy look with her own sensuality.  “Nice,” she purrs, “but let’s stop…improvising.”  Castle acquires a predatory male expression, and starts to move from the bed.  “No need,” she murmurs, and reaches into the nightstand drawer.

“When’d you have time to get those?” he says, astonished.

She colours delicately.  “Before work.”

“But you made me improvise.”

She smiles seductively.  “I like your improvisation.”  Then she strokes.  “But I think I’ll like this” – she strokes again – “even better.”  An instant later he’s covered.  “Now, where was I?”  Her fingers move naughtily.

“Under me,” Castle rasps, tired of her teasing, and thrusts home.

She’s… he can’t think, he can only feel.  Her around him and below him and her hands gripping and her legs round his waist and she is _perfect_ and all his.  She moves with him and he with her and then there’s his power and her glory and _them_.

He falls asleep around her and within her, and doesn’t wake till her alarm shocks him into a new day and she shoos him out again, softening it with a kiss that leaves him reeling.

Castle wanders home, blissed out.  Unfortunately, blissed out is rapidly being replaced by the unhappy knowledge that this whole situation is precariously balanced on a hair trigger – which, if he doesn’t find a way to solve it soon, may very well prove to be the trigger of Kate’s Glock.  He had really hurt her, as Richard Castle, and he needs to fix it.

His happy mood quite gone, he reaches home, has breakfast with his daughter as usual, and, since his temper is bleak, takes it out on Gina’s edits until they are beaten into submission.  Then he e-mails them back to her with a sarcastic note and shoots evil warriors for a while.

None of these pursuits assist him in fixing his major problem.  He pushes it to the back of his mind, and hopes that if it’s safely corralled there it will find a solution for itself.  He, meanwhile, has a book to write, and that’s what he does.

A few hours later, his e-mail pings, with a message from Gina. 

_Thanks for the edits.  All good.  New character promising.  Carry on.  It might even replace Storm._

Of course it will replace Storm.  She will _eclipse_ Storm.  Gina has no freaking idea how big this will be.  Stung by her lukewarm enthusiasm, he turns back to his manuscript and keeps writing.   He texts Kate: _Boss on my back.  Don’t know when she’ll let me off.  Will call.  R._

Fairly shortly he gets a response.  _Don’t worry.  Epidemic of pop-n-drops.  KB._

And for the next couple of days they can only exchange occasional texts.  Castle is writing as if demon-flogged; Kate (from her texts) is buried in bodies.

Beckett is not actually too desperately upset that she hasn’t seen Rick for a couple of days.  Granted, he’s excellent company and equally excellent in bed.  However, it’s all moving very, very fast, and she really doesn’t want them to crash and burn.  She simply wants a little time to get her head round everything and think clearly, and she can’t think clearly when Rick’s with her.  All she can think about then is just how good they are together and how much she likes him there.  That is, when she can think at all.  Not that he seems to be capable of thinking when he’s with her either.

At the end of another busy day of pop-n-drops, marital disharmonies and street muggings-making-murders, she arrives home with enough brain left to consider.  Mostly, what she is considering is that she misses Rick: his solid size, his comforting warmth and his ability to make her feel better with barely a word.  Partly, she is considering how good a lover he is; how well they send each other soaring.  Partly, her innate caution is saying _be careful, you’ve known each other a couple of weeks, you’re blissed out on spectacular sex_.  Which is totally true.  They reacted to each other like lit matches in gasoline.  That’s not a foundation, it’s an inferno.

And yet… and yet, even though his constant questions are infuriating, she misses them already; even though she’s never liked public displays of affection, she misses his unthinking hugs anywhere he finds her.

In his luxurious loft, Castle has run out of words to write, and is contemplating Kate.  He misses her: the way she fits so beautifully into the crook of his arm; her clipped, brisk speech and sardonic mien; the fact that she treats him normally.  And, of course, her scorching hotness and the speed with which they light each other up.  Amazingly, though, that’s not the main part of it.  It’s not even significant.  She’s interesting.  Her job – she has a job, which is a bit of a change from all the women he meets except Gina – is fascinating.  She inspires him.

And he’s lying to her.  By omission, and by misleading words.  He’s lying, and it doesn’t make it any better that he’s doing so because he absolutely has to keep her.

He sits and thinks about that.  _Why_ does he absolutely have to keep her?  He’s had inspirations before…Sophia, aka Clara Strike.  It wasn’t like this, however.  It really was not like this.  Even in this short time, she…

She _matches_.  She fits.  Her mind works as fast as his; she’s interested and engaged in the world.  He wants to know more about her family: the loss of her mother, the mysterious absence of any real discussion about her father.  Not that he’s mentioning his family.  Lying by omission, again.

He has to find a way to tell her the truth.

Suddenly he sits bolt upright.  If Richard Castle had been an arrogant jackass – then Richard Castle could apologise.  Try and make amends.  Make her…like Richard Castle.  And then, having made up for Richard Castle’s crass behaviour… maybe it won’t be so hard to tell her that they’re the same man?

Lighter of heart and conscience, he decides he’ll start tomorrow.

* * *

“Rick, it’s Gina.”

“Hey,” he says suspiciously.

“Storm Fall has gone to final version.  One more read, and we’re done.”

“Why’re you calling?  Usually you just e-mail.”

“Your new book.”

“Yeah?” he drags.

“How fast can you get me the next chapters?”

“Uh?”

“Next chapters.  I want them.”

“Want them?”

“Stop repeating everything.  When can you get me the next chapters?”

“You _like_ it,” Castle says with immense smugness.  “You actually really, really like it.”

“It has possibilities.”

“No.  You _like_ it.  It’s going to be bigger than Storm, isn’t it?  Admit it.”  Gina mutters something entirely incomprehensible.  “You do _so_.  Would it kill you to say so?”

“Okay.  It’s good.  So far.  Now show me the rest.”

Childishly, Castle wants to say _no_.  It’s his book.  It’s his and Kate’s story.  But that’s not how it works.  “Okay, I’ll send the completed chapters over.”

“How many?”

“Another four.” 

There is a stunned silence.  “Four?”

“Yeah.  I’m close to the end.”  He hasn’t written like this since the very beginning of Storm, when the whole book was in his head at once and the only delay was the speed of his fingers on his keyboard.  He couldn’t stop himself; couldn’t stem the flow of words.

“Wow.”  Pause.  “Send me it.”

“Okay.  Tomorrow.”

“Okay.  Bye.”

“Bye.”

Since Gina has interrupted him, Castle decides that this is a good moment for Richard Castle to start to mend fences with Kate Beckett.  He remembers to use his house phone, finds her number and dials.

“Beckett,” the familiar voice raps.

“Detective Beckett.”  He puts a little more suavity into his voice, a semitone drop.  “It’s Richard Castle.  I wanted to” –

“Goodbye.”

He stares at the phone.  That was… unexpected.  He thought he’d at least get a couple of sentences out.  The thin trail of worry returns, coiling itself into his gut.  He’ll try again tomorrow.  For now, he goes back to the book.

Later, the soft chirp of a text interrupts him.  _Still stuck here.  Want to join for takeout and the crime?_

 _Sure_ , he sends back, and follows the text out the door to the Twelfth, collecting an assortment of Chinese dishes on the way.

The bullpen is buzzing.  Takeout is eaten at Kate’s desk, with a sauce of the gruesome details of murder to go with the soy.  Castle doesn’t turn a hair, which gains him some kudos with Ryan and Espo.  He listens, asks questions, asks more questions, asks _why_ – and suddenly the cops are rushing about and tapping frantically and there’s bustle and hustle and motion and electricity sparking through the air –

And then it all stops again.  Kate stands up and stretches (Castle stares).  “Okay, we can’t do any more now.  We’ll start again tomorrow.”

The boys rush for the door.  Kate stretches again, turns as Castle holds her coat for her and slips into it, and leads him out.  She yawns all the way down in the elevator, and he realises it’s close to eleven.  He slides an arm round her, and she leans in.

“Let’s get you home,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“Finely asleep.”

“I can get home fine.”

“Can I escort you, Detective?”

She throws him a sidelong glance.

“I’ll worry,” he says piously.

“I have a gun.”

“Not much use if you’re asleep – unless you go in for sleep shooting?  You know, like sleepwalking only you fire a gun which would be totally cool” –

“Until you were picking bullets out of the wall.  For some reason landlords don’t like that.”

“Guess so.  Anyway, let me escort you home.  Promise no funny business.”

She raises an eyebrow. 

“You’re too tired.”

The eyebrow descends, to be replaced by a jaw splitting yawn.  “Guess so,” she says easily.  “Okay.  Let’s go.”  She snuggles into his arm until they reach her car.

“Want me to drive?”

“No.  My car.  I drive.  And no playing with the controls, either.”  Castle pouts, to no effect whatsoever.


	10. Chapter 10

Beckett attains her apartment, shadowed by Rick, who appears to be close enough to carry her should her gaping yawns overwhelm her (no chance.  She’s been far more tired than this and achieved more) before she sits down.  Unsurprisingly, he sits next to her; equally unsurprisingly, his arm is around her.

“Home,” she notes.

“Sleep,” Rick suggests.

“I’m fine.”  She tucks her toes up under her and wiggles to become comfortable.  This involves leaning her head on his shoulder and nestling in.  Rick is a very comfortable shape, with broad chest and nicely muscled arms properly arranged around her.

“So what happened?”

“Huh?”

“I asked about where his car was, and you all went off like rockets and for about half an hour it was all noise and fuss and then it all stopped again.”

“We needed a warrant for street camera footage, and so we all needed to assemble the support for it and then send it off.  But till we get it, we couldn’t go any further.”

“Okay.  You told me about warrants.”

“So tomorrow ought to be better than today was.”

“What went wrong?”

“Nothing wrong, just irritating.”

“Mm?”

She curls in, and Rick automatically tightens his arm.  She really likes that he isn’t pushing for anything: not so much as a kiss dropped on her hair.  She’s far too tired to start anything, and all she actually wants is some undemanding affection, which he is providing.  Warmth unfolds in her chest.

Castle is perfectly happy with undemanding affection.  While he has absolutely no objection at all to more (and indeed lots more), it’s rather nice not to feel a bit like a show pony: expected to perform in style.  He cuddles Kate in and waits to find out what’s annoyed her.

“That arrogant idiot Richard Castle.” 

He jumps.  “Urgh?” he emits.

“He had the temerity to call me.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know.  Don’t care.  I don’t ever want to speak to him.”

 _Oh, shit_.  This is going to be harder than Castle had thought.  “Maybe he wanted to apologise?” he tries hopefully.

“What?  Apologise?  No chance.  He tried to hit on me and when I walked out on him he was flirting with the hostess.”  An unformed growl emanates from her throat.

Castle, wisely, says nothing, though he resolves to try again soon.  Starting the call with the word _sorry_ might work better.

“Anyway.”  She peeps up through her lashes.  “I really need to sleep.”

Castle stands up, suddenly grins mischievously, and plucks her off the couch to sweep her into his arms.  She squeaks.  “There,” he says happily.  “I’ll make sure you get to your bedroom safely.”  She glares.  It doesn’t really work when she’s been scooped up, bridal style.  Castle manoeuvres them through her bedroom door, carefully lays her down on her bed, plops a platonic kiss on her forehead and then a decidedly less platonic kiss on her lips, and then steps back.

“Night, Kate,” he grins. 

“Night,” she yawns, and smiles vaguely.  “Thanks.”

Castle ambles towards home, trying to work out the best way of getting Richard Castle back into Kate’s good books.  It’s not terribly successful, but natural confidence and her behaviour this evening make him think that it will all work out in the end.  Likely it’ll take a while, but he’ll make it work.  Anyway, he’s energised and inspired, and Gina _loves_ Nikki Heat.  So does he.

Oh.  Oh oh oh.  Oh God. 

Oh God.  It’s far too soon.  It’s insane.   He’s barely known her four weeks.  This is _insane_.  He’s crazy. 

And he’s never felt like this before. 

He has to try to fix the Richard Castle problem.  Surely she’ll come round, if he apologises?

But it still takes him a few days to get up the courage to try again.

* * *

Beckett picks up her ringing cellphone with considerable annoyance at the interruption, unacknowledged irritation that it’s not Rick, and answers with an edge of ire.

“Beckett.”

“I’m sorry,” says the smooth tone of that rich asshole celebrity.  “I want” -

“Goodbye.”

She swipes off with a gesture that would have cut rock.

And so it goes on.  Every single day she gets at least one call from Asshole Castle.  Every single one starts, “I’m sorry,” and every single one gets cut off.  Sometimes he manages to get as far as, “I’m sorry and can I make it up?” but usually she cuts the call before he even starts the third word.  Asshole Castle can _not_ take a hint.  Or a two-by-four to the head.

On the other hand, she’s appreciating Rick more by the day.  He doesn’t push.  She doesn’t push.  If either of them can’t manage to meet, there’s no hassle, no pressure to change things around.  He accepts that her job is, shall she say, _random_ , and that sometimes she simply has to cancel, at appallingly short notice.  He uncomplainingly changes dinner dates to takeout at her desk, and seems to be perfectly happy with an occasional seat in the bullpen after hours and a chance to watch the team work.

And ask questions, of course, and then theorise with crazy suggestions which would never be real in a million years.  Sometimes, it seems that he thinks that his sole purpose in life is to drive them insane in less than two hours.  Sometimes, it seems like it’s working.

She finds herself expecting him to be in touch – and he is – but if he isn’t, she misses it.  She _wants_ to be in touch with him, and though she tells herself it’s ridiculously teenage and suffocating, she texts him even if they haven’t made arrangements to meet.  They – um, _connect_ – in some way pretty much every day, though it’s not necessarily in person.

She enjoys his tactile behaviour: never slow to hug, or take her hand, or drop a kiss on her hair, or stroke her back when he’s (unnecessarily) guiding her through a door, or the subway.  She even (not that she admits it) enjoys his constant talking.  The only time he doesn’t talk is when he’s kissing her or asleep.  His soft baritone rumble carries her along without effort, where she’d always thought that she liked peace and quiet.  Of course, he never expects that she’ll talk.  He’s quite happy if she doesn’t, as long as she answers his technical questions for a while. 

The funny thing is, she’s talked more to him than to anyone.  Certainly she’s talked more than she ever had to Will.  Told him about her mother, about the books, hinted at her father’s troubles.  He’s very easy to talk to: to confide in.  With him, she feels safe.  Not physically: she’s the one with the gun; but emotionally.  When she’s curled into his undemanding affection, it’s like coming home.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s seriously good in bed, either – but that’s not the main thing.  The _main_ thing is that he’s solidly reassuring, stable, and loving…

Oh my God.  Oh God.  It’s too soon.  It’s far too soon and this is _not_ sensible, barriered Kate Beckett.  This is a silly teen crush.  This is the hot blaze of sexual attraction and not a firm basis at all…

Who the hell is she kidding?  She’s six feet under and sinking fast.  She’s never been like this.  Never lost her head and her heart at once.  It’s just not her.

And yet, already, she can’t imagine her day without a little leavening of Rick’s ridiculousness.  He brings a touch of light to a dark job, and a smidge of humour to balance the sadness of death.

* * *

Two weeks later, Ryan and Espo are ostensibly discussing the case, but in reality they’re discussing Beckett’s boyfriend.  Since she hasn’t had one since that Fed, thankfully now Fed- _Ex_ (they really hadn’t liked him), they’re…um…interested.  Keen to ensure he’s doing right by her.  And absolutely dumbfounded by how wrapped up in each other the pair of them are.  It’s almost sweet.

“Espo,” Ryan mutters, “That guy of Beckett’s.  Rick someone.  Did you get a last name?”

“No.  An’ after how she ripped us a new one I ain’t trying.  Leave it.”

“Yeah, but… he looks really like that author she’s so fond of.  The books, I mean.”

“Leave it.”  Esposito is firm.  “We’ll only get in more shit if you do.  She can defend herself.  Leave it till she asks us.”

Over on her own desk, Beckett doesn’t let the boys know that she can, courtesy of a quirk in the acoustics, hear them.  But if they try running Rick, she will definitely rip them each several new ones.

The only problem is that her natural curiosity about his family and history is beginning to bite _hard_.  She knows she shouldn’t, and so far she’s keeping it under tight control.  Sense says: just ask him.  Curiosity says run him.  She thinks about how angry and hurt she would be if her boyfriend ran her behind her back, and doesn’t: after all, he hasn’t pried into her background.  It takes her nearly every ounce of self-control that she has.  Knowing it would be wrong doesn’t really help – she is, after all, an _investigator_.  Consequently, she is irritable at herself, which spills over on to the boys, which makes for a tense day.

At the end of it, Beckett hasn’t had a chance to contact Rick, and does have a rather nasty headache.  She is therefore less than delighted when their case catches a break and they’re off out on the trail at six, down into the grimy areas by the docks. 

At seven, they’re still searching.  At seven thirty, it’s getting dark.  By eight, it really is dark, and the streetlights aren’t doing much to illuminate the shadows round the warehouses and back alleys.  Their prey has been cornered, but Beckett has a bad feeling that isn’t justified by anything except her gut. 

They go in.  It’s pitch black, except where a sulky gloom leaks through the door they left ajar.

“I want my night scope,” Espo mutters.

“I want my mom,” comes from Ryan, sardonically.  They snicker.

“I want this guy in cuffs and a cell,” Beckett snaps, low-toned.  “So can we lose the kindergarten?”

There’s a soft scuffing noise to her left.  They fan out, skulking across the warehouse in the dark, tracking the scuffing and encircling it, closing in – until the lights flash on and they’re all momentarily blinded and there’s a banging noise and feet running and then a shot and a crash and the perp on the floor.

“Get a bus!” Beckett orders.  Ryan’s already dialling.

“Got him in the leg,” Espo notes with professional pride.

“Yeah, well, now can you get him to stop bleeding before he’s as dead as his victim?”  She’s already applying pressure to the leg.  Espo assists by ensuring he’s cuffed, which will at least prevent him taking a swing at anyone.

Not soon enough for Beckett’s taste the bus turns up.  Out of sheer irritation she’s about to send Espo with the perp – his cuffs, his shot, his gun – when she remembers that the investigative unit will be along and they’ll want to talk to him.

“Ryan.  Take the keys for the cuffs from Espo and go with this guy.  Make sure they patch him up enough to stand his trial.”

“Yo.”

“Espo, you get to talk to the investigators.”

“Yo,” he says miserably.  “What are you going to do?”

“The paperwork,” she replies. 

The investigators arrive, and Beckett departs for the precinct, completely heedless that it’s now after nine.  Another shooting so soon after the last has shaken her up a little, and she needs some monotonous paperwork and then she’ll go home and read for an hour or two.

So that’s what she does.  She takes an hour to sort out the paperwork, and then she trails home, not noticeably happier or calmer.  She thinks about a glass of wine, and then thinks that shift starts at eight and she’ll need to be in before that, and changes it to latte.

Storm Rising falls on to the couch, Beckett obtains her coffee, and joins the book among her comfortable cushions.  It’s fallen on its back, and there is a picture of the infuriating author, who just does not know when to _stop_ annoying her.  She must have declined his calls a dozen times in the last four weeks, and forgotten to decline them another dozen in which she’s made it crystal clear that she _does not want to talk to him_.

Ever.

She looks at the picture again: so similar to _her_ Rick, and yet so very, very different.  _Her_ Rick isn’t an arrogant, pushy celebrity.

Her eyes slip down to the bio.

_Richard Castle, best-selling author of twenty-five novels, including the world-famous Derrick Storm series, lives in Manhattan with his daughter and mother, Tony-nominated Broadway actress Martha Rodgers._

Beckett stops hard.  Then she reads the last three words again.

 _Actress Martha Rodgers_.  Memory floats back.  _And your mother?_ Paolo had said.  _Is she so busy acting she can’t come by?_ Rodgers.  Rick Rodgers.

She grabs her laptop.  It’s not _true_.  It _can’t_ be true.  She’ll _prove_ it isn’t true.

But deep inside, she already knows, and the world crashes in on her.  Richard Castle.  Rick Rodgers.  They don’t look similar.  They look identical.  Because they _are_ identical. 

Because they’re the same man.  She just hadn’t wanted to see it, and passed the looks off as an amazing coincidence.  And as soon as she’d turned down the celebrity, the fake ordinary guy had spilled her into bed anyway.

He’s been lying to her for over a month and she’d told him exactly how she felt because of his books and how much she’d hated – _him_ – and he hasn’t said a single word to tell her the truth.

 _I thought I might write a story_ , he’d said – and she’d swallowed it and all his other lies hook, line and sinker.  She’d told him all about her mother, and a little about her father, and spilled out her feelings about life, which she’d never done before, and he’d pretended to sympathise and no doubt it’s all going into his _story_.

She still searches his history, furious, shattering misery clouding her as she goes.  Every click of her mouse and keyboard reveals another deception.  He works in an office.  Yeah, _sure_.  In his $13 million loft in a Broome Street cast-iron block.  How he must have laughed at her small rental.  He doesn’t want to take her to any celebrity haunts.  _Sure_ he doesn’t.  He already knew she wouldn’t fit in.  Must have been a hell of a shock for him, slumming it in Remy’s with a cop.

 _Well, fuck him_ , she thinks, scrubbing her momentary tears away.  _Fuck him and the horse he rode in on._

She blocks his number, and then removes his details from her phone.  All the books are removed from her bookcase and stacked out of sight in the bottom of a closet.  She’ll fill the shelves with something else.  He’s just destroyed the way the books had recalled to her the best memories of her mother, and she can’t cope with that.

She trails to her bedroom, without looking around in case her shattered heart is bleeding out on the floor, has a scaldingly hot shower, takes two Advil because she already has a building headache, and then goes back to the precinct.  Work has always been her other refuge.

Now, it’s her only refuge.

* * *

Castle realises that, a while after the detritus of breakfast and morning chaos has been reduced to a clean and organised state, he hadn’t heard from Kate at all yesterday.  He guesses that she’d got caught up in a break on the case, but it’s still surprising.  Normally – they have a _normally_ now – she fires him a quick text when it’s all done.  He taps out a quick note: _how’s the case?_  

It doesn’t deliver.  He looks at it in astonishment, and resends.  It bounces again.  He tries a call.  It goes directly to voicemail.  He shrugs.  Maybe her phone got trashed if they went in and there was a scuffle.  He’ll try again later.

Around lunchtime, he tries again.  Still no answer.  He begins to worry.  Has she been injured?  He can’t stand the thought of Kate being hurt, or in hospital, and he unable to take care of her.  It’s not like he’s got any other way to find out.  He’ll just have to keep trying.

By late afternoon, he’s left five messages and his tension level is somewhere past the top of the Empire State Building.  Something is clearly very badly wrong.  Suddenly he has to know what’s happened, and the only way to find that out is to go to the Twelfth and ask someone.  He tears off, and after some well-judged bribery of a taxi driver arrives at the front door of the precinct in only a few moments.

“Hey,” he says to the desk sergeant.  “I’m looking for Detective Beckett.  Is she around?”

“Sure,” the sergeant says.  “She’s upstairs.  Been there all day.”  _So why hasn’t she answered my calls?  What’s going on?_   “Wanna go on up?”

“Yeah.  Thanks.”  He calls the elevator, and steps out at Kate’s floor.

A second later, his world starts to collapse around him.  She turns to the ting of the elevator, sees him – and her face turns hard and cold, and she turns away.  _She turned away_.  He hurries across to her desk.

“Kate?  Kate, I was worried about you.  I called” –

“I know.”  Her words fall like meteorites, destroying everything in their path.  “I know everything.”  There is a ghastly pause, in which appalled knowledge starts to coalesce.  “Richard Castle,” she grates, and the avalanche of his own lies buries him.

“Kate…”

“Get out.  I don’t play those games.”  She might as well be granite.  He stands there, frozen.  “Get out.”  Just for an instant, the façade cracks.  “They were what kept my mother alive for me.  You’ve ruined that.  Get out of here.  I never want to see you again.  _It was my mother_.”  She turns back to the papers before her, fingers white-knuckled on her pen, and doesn’t look up.

She doesn’t look up when his heavy tread takes him back to the elevator, nor when it announces his imminent departure, nor when the doors close.  All he sees, through blurry eyes, is her rigid back and shoulders, her bowed head and the sharp jagged line of her short hair on her neck.

He doesn’t know how he gets home.  He doesn’t know how he gets into his study.  He doesn’t know how the time passes.

All he knows is that she’s gone. 

Kate’s left him.  Kate’s found out the truth and she’s left him.

* * *

Beckett goes straight to the restroom as soon as the elevator doors have shut, locks herself in a stall and cries every tear she hadn’t shed the night before.

And then she repairs her make-up until nobody could tell, goes back to her desk and keeps right on working.  It’s not as if she has anything else to do, after all.


	11. Chapter 11

Ryan and Esposito had, of course, noticed Rick’s arrival – and his rapid departure, followed by a short absence of Beckett, who returned with a perfectly calm face.  From all of this, they deduce without a pause that there had been a fight.  A very quiet fight, to be sure, but a fight.  They also deduce without further delay that enquiring will be materially injurious to their continued good health, and therefore don’t go within six feet of Beckett’s desk without having a very good reason.

However, when they do go, to discuss the evidence (or lack of evidence), she’s exactly as focused and cool as she ever was.  Conversation remains strictly connected to the job.  Neither man asks anything that isn’t related to cameras, or CSU results.  So passes the entire day, in which time Beckett behaves utterly normally and doesn’t twitch an eyelash out of turn.

Naturally, Ryan and Espo conclude that there is more to this than they know, but being unaware of Rick’s surname they are unable to try to assist – also known as prying, and then, no doubt, known as intimidating.  They’re not keen on people upsetting their team, and when Beckett’s upset, the team is upset.  Unfortunately, they have nowhere to start.  They can hardly run every Rick in Manhattan, after all.

Until Ryan has an idea.

“Espo?”

“Yeah?”

“What if Beckett’s Rick really was that author?  What’s his name?”

“Dunno…um….”

“There can’t be that many authors called Rick” –

“Or Richard” –

“– in Manhattan.  We could have a look…” he entices.  Esposito makes a thoughtful face.

“We could.  Just to rule him out.”

“I got it!” Ryan says.  “Castle.  Richard Castle.”

“Okay.  Soon as Beckett’s out of the way, we’ll have a look.”

But Beckett isn’t out of the way.  Beckett, in fact, appears to be set in for the night.  The boys leave, and she stays on.

“That’s not good, Espo.”

“Nope.”

“We need some time tomorrow.”

“Yep.”  He pauses.  “But right now I need a beer.  Want one?”

“Sure.”

* * *

Beckett trudges home, as late as she can manage: that is, when she’s cleared her desk and really cannot pretend that she has anything more to do. 

She looks around the kitchen, unhappily.  She should eat, but she’s not hungry.  Misery sits, an indigestible lump, in her gut.  She should have known.  If it looks too good to be true, it is.  Nothing is ever that good.  She’ll get over it.

She’ll have to.  

 _Next_ time, she’s going to run the guy straight away.  None of this courtesy, or trust, or ramming down her curiosity.  She wishes she’d run Rick Rodgers aka Asshole Castle straight away.  She wouldn’t have been in this mess if she had.  Her taste in men is atrocious.  Will cared more about his career than about her (though he could, quite truthfully, have said the same in reverse).  And Richard Castle was a celebrity playboy slumming it in dubious bars and cheap burger joints, picking up inspiration – and her – for free.  _Money for nothing and your chicks for free_ , in the words of the song.

She pours herself a drink, looks bleakly at the amber liquid, and throws it back; pours another, and sips, very slowly and deliberately.  She _wants_ to keep throwing it back until she can’t see straight: when she wouldn’t be able to think, or focus, or remember.  But she won’t do that.  She knows where that road leads, and so she sips.

Eventually, the whiskey is finished, the soft burn in her throat fading.  It’s well past midnight: only a small side light puddling on the floor; the sulky glow of streetlamps skulking through the windows.  Time to try to sleep.

As soon as she trails into her bedroom, she realises her mistake.  Even now, there’s a trace of his aroma.  She bites down on the surge of emotion, crushing it, opens her windows wide to the cold night air and whining wind, strips her bed and remakes it.  It had had clean linens in any event, but she doesn’t want the slightest hint or reminder.  No memories here.

Shame about the dreams.

She forces herself to rest: at least, her body.  Her mind roils, her shamed fury that she had been so deceived, so easily; and indeed that she had deceived herself; leaves her thoughts scrabbling inside her head like a cageful of lab rats.  When sleep does overtake her, her dreams are pinpoint sharp.  Dreams.  Yeah.  Well.  Nightmares.  Rick Rodgers, insisting she goes to celebrity haunts, laughing at how out of place she is, flirting with the hostesses and scribbling in a little black book.

She wakes heavy-eyed and thick-headed, which her shower doesn’t cure but her make-up conceals, and arrives in the bullpen at her normal time.  Nothing has appeared in the scant hours since she left, and so there is nothing for her to do except drink her coffee and shine up her badge.

Fortunately, before she polishes the top from her desk, information arrives and she can put her head down and work.  The boys arrive, take due note of her fierce concentration, and don’t disturb her.

* * *

In his loft, Castle wakes, miserable, hides it through breakfast, retires to his study and mopes.  He can’t believe just how wrong this has gone.  Worse, her final words are gnawing at him.  _It was my mother_.  He’s never heard such pain.  He’s ruined the one thing – he _knows_ this: she _told_ him – that made her feel close to her mother, and he has no idea how to fix it.

In the midst of his misery, his phone rings.

“Rick?”

“Gina,” he says heavily.  He doesn’t want to speak to Gina.

“Your new book.”

“Yeah?”  He doesn’t want to talk about that either.

“It’s good.” 

A day ago, he’d have been dancing on the ceiling at that.  Gina never praises.  Ever.  Today, he doesn’t care.

“As part of the Storm PR, we’re going to start trailing it.  Build up anticipation.  By the time it’s out, everyone will want it.  It’s going to be huge.  So you need to get on with it.  I’ll send through the first edits next week.  I want them back by the end of the following week.  I’ve set up a preliminary meeting with the cover designer for tomorrow, and with Paula straight after that to start planning the best timing and PR to fit with the Storm schedule.”

“Yeah.”

“Rick, are you paying _any_ attention?  You were totally enthusiastic about this new book and now you sound like you don’t give a shit.  What’s wrong with you?”

Answer comes there none.

“What’s her name?” Gina snaps.  “You’re only ever like this when you don’t get what or who you want.  Find her, either grovel or screw her, and snap out of it.  I’ll e-mail you the meetings.  Clearly you aren’t listening now.”

She cuts the call, irritation evident.  Castle ignores her tone, her subsequent e-mail, and her commentary.  He has no idea what to do.  He doesn’t care about anything: Storm, Heat, Gina, Paula or anything else that isn’t a sure fire way of getting his Kate back.  He returns to slump-backed misery.

* * *

In the bullpen, Ryan has managed to find a point in time where Beckett is not present – she’s gone to the morgue to harass Lanie.  He and Espo get started in quick time.

“Okay,” Ryan says, fingers flickering rapidly over his keyboard.  “Richard Castle, author.”  He presses enter.

They regard each other, dumbfounded.  There are screeds of information.  Stacks of it.  There are also photos, which resemble Beckett’s boyfriend Rick to an extraordinary degree.  When they dig back a little, there is another name.  Rick Rodgers.  They obtain an address: not difficult, and a rap sheet, which makes them snigger.

“Naked police horse riding?”

“You gotta feel sorry for the horse.  Probably it’s got PTSD.”

“Or an inferiority complex.”  The picture doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination, it is true.

“So what’re we gonna do?”

But there they stop.  They don’t know what to do.  They don’t have a single good reason to go and knock on Richard Castle’s door: they can hardly try “are you Rick Rodgers?” and he hasn’t – yet – committed or witnessed a crime.  Merely – ha! – upsetting Beckett is not a crime, though it may result in one.  They finish reading through the information, take a note of the address, and clear both the screen and the search history.  By the time Beckett returns, they’re peacefully reviewing bank records and camera footage.

* * *

Beckett had hoped for some useful information, and so had visited the morgue to see if she could obtain some.

“Hey, girl,” Lanie greets her.  “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Beckett says, attempting cheer.  It rapidly becomes obvious that her attempt hasn’t succeeded.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” Lanie contradicts.  “Man trouble?”

“Guess so.”

“Mm?”

“We broke up.”

And Beckett, astonishingly and embarrassingly, breaks down.  Lanie shuts the door, ushers her friend into the small office, and shuts that door too.

“C’mon, girl.  Blow your nose.  He’s not worth it.”

Beckett snuffles and dabs her eyes dry.  Lanie looks at her, amazed.

“Where do you _get_ that mascara?  It really is waterproof.  Come on, you gotta share that!”

Beckett manages a very waterlogged snicker.  “Estee Lauder,” she admits.  “But I” – sniff – “pay a freaking fortune for it.”

“Worth it,” Lanie decides, “when it sticks like that.”  She refocuses on the main issue.  “So you broke up.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Wasn’t who I thought he was.”

“Mm?  That doesn’t tell me much.  How am I supposed to tell you what a sonofabitch he is and sympathise properly if you don’t give me any information?  Come on, you gotta help me out here.”

Beckett stares, liquid-eyed, at an innocent patch of wall.  Lanie waits, very patiently and very quietly, and makes sure the box of Kleenex is close by.  Just as Lanie considers shaking the information out of her friend, she speaks.

“He lied to me.”

“Mm?”

“He said he was Rick Rodgers.”

“Yeah?” Lanie says carefully, somewhat confused.  “And?”

“And he wasn’t.”

“What?  How do you mean he wasn’t?”

Beckett sniffs loudly.  “It wasn’t his name.”  She sniffs again.

“Oh?”

She gulps.  “He lied about his name.”

“Yes, but _who was he_?” Lanie says exasperatedly.

“Richard Castle.”  She dissolves into tears again.

“What?  That author you’re so fond of?  What’s the problem?”

“I met Richard Castle.  He was an arrogant _asshole_ who hit on me and he was _nothing_ like Rick.  Nothing at all.  I blew him off and then he kept calling me but Rick was different and…” she trails off.

“I think you’d better start at the beginning, Kate.  I’m totally confused.  It’s worse than your weirdest cases.”  Lanie grins evilly.  “But if you need me to hide the body, or dismember it, I can sharpen my scalpels.”

Beckett explains, shorn of detail, and with the addition of several more Kleenex.  Lanie makes a whole series of appropriate noises, and occasionally adds some bloodthirsty suggestions with which Beckett appears to agree.

“So, this Rick Rodgers picked you up in a bar, and instead of hitting on you, you went to Remy’s and he said he wanted to try to write a book, and then you got it on.  And somewhere in between Richard Castle found out you’d bought some crappy childhood book of his, bought it back” –

“I didn’t _sell_ it.  I told him to donate to AA,” Beckett snips.

“Okay, okay, for a donation.  Hope it was big.  He sells more books than anyone but God.”

“Didn’t ask.  Don’t care.”

“Whatever.  Lemme finish.  Richard Castle hit on you, you blew him off – and I bet you weren’t nice about it,” Lanie smirks.”

“Nope.”

“– and then he kept phoning you.  All the time, you were getting it on with Rick Rodgers.  And then you found out they were the same.  Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  The recitation doesn’t seem to make Beckett any happier.

“So how did you not notice they were the same?  You’re observant.”

“I wasn’t looking for it, okay!  And they dressed and behaved totally differently.”  She shrugs, bitterly.  “He deliberately pretended to be someone else.”

“Okay, he’s a lying, ratfaced, double-dealing bastard, but why haven’t you just shot him and moved on?”

“He spoilt it.”

“Uh?” Lanie says very inelegantly.  “Spoilt what?”

“You _know_ why I read his books.  ‘Cause Mom loved them.  And when I read them I remembered how she was…” tears start to trickle again.  “And he’s nothing but a rich, arrogant asshole hitting on any pretty woman he sees and it _spoilt_ them and now I’ve nothing to remember Mom with at all.”

She dissolves again.  Lanie, completely unsure what to do with her friend, who never cries, and usually shoots targets or hits things when upset, pats her and keeps passing the tissues.  Eventually, fortunately before the Kleenex runs out, Beckett pulls herself together, makes a disgusted face, and stands up.

“Thanks, Lanie.”

“Any time.”

“Now.  You got any results for me?”

“Nope.  Takes more than a day.  Stop hassling me.  You’ll get them as soon as I got them.”

Beckett grumps at her.  Lanie grumps right back.

“Okay.  Better get back to the bullpen.”

“Seeya.  And don’t forget, I got sharp scalpels, a saw and a bathful of acid, if you need it.”

“Thanks,” Beckett says again.

* * *

Sitting in Black Pawn’s offices the following day, as ordered by Gina, Castle clings to his coffee as the only bearable matter in an unbearable world.  He’d barely slept the previous night, again, and he’s logy and slow.

“What the hell happened to you?” Gina asks, shocked.  “You look like you’ve been on a three-day bender with the Canal Street panhandlers.  You’re not ill, are you?”  Sympathy is not a notable component of her question.

“No.  Can we just get on with this?”  _Can we just get this over with?  I don’t wanna be here_.

“Okay.  First up, cover design.”  A collection of designs are produced.  “These are all fairly stock, but if you pick one or two you think go with the story, we can work from that to produce something original.”

He looks at the designs spread across the table, and winces.  There’s one which is perfect as a base, but all he can see when he looks at it is _his_ lovely Kate all spread out in bed with him: naked as a jaybird and perfectly at ease.

He has to choose.  “That one,” he decides, and taps the perfect beginning.

“Okay.  That was easier than usual.  Let’s get Paula in and start thinking about the PR.”

Castle doesn’t want to do that either.  He wants to go home and cry.  Of course, men don’t cry.  But he wants to.  He has a point-perfect picture of happy, sated Kate in his head – and a matching point-perfect picture of her face as she told him to go.  He relapses into black gloom, and doesn’t look at anything further than the dregs of his black coffee until Paula sashays in.

“So we got a new series already?” she twangs.  “That’s unusual.”

“Series?” Castle bites out.  “That’s premature.”

“Don’t be dumb, Rick.  I read it too.  Of course it’s gonna be a series.”

It’s not going to be a series, because Kate’s ditched him and he has no chance whatsoever of doing the research that he’d need to do to write any further books up to his own standards.

“Let’s get this one on the way before we get into the future,” Gina points out, which is about the first helpful thing she’s done this week.  Contrary to Castle’s usual view of her, she appears to have picked up on his tension.

She had.  As soon as Paula is out the door, Gina is on to him.

“What’s up, Rick?  Normally you’d be telling us this is a series and the best book you’ve ever written, yada yada.  You’ve barely opened your mouth all morning.  This ought to be a series, so what’s your problem?”

“It won’t be a series.”

Gina’s mouth drops open.  “What?  Why not?  It reads like it should be.”

“Well, it won’t be.  So you’d better treat it like a one-off.”

“Oh, no.  You don’t get to send me a book that’s the start of a new series and then tell me it isn’t without a better explanation than that.”  Her expression changes to enlightenment.  “Oh, for God’s sake, Rick.  I should have seen it right away.  It’s the main character, isn’t it?  You’ve fallen for her and she won’t play.  Well, fix it.  You’re rich, handsome when you try, and apparently charming though you never waste it on me.  Surely you can fix it?”

“I can’t.  She loathes Richard Castle.  I need access to her and her precinct and I’m not going to get it.”

“That’s a problem,” Gina says thoughtfully.

 _Tell me something I don’t know_ , Castle thinks.

“Let me think about it.  There’s got to be an angle.  You’re the biggest selling author in New York right now.  There’ll be a way.”

Gina relapses into thought.  Castle relapses into more gloom.

“Rick!  Rick!”

“Uh?  What?”

“Who’s that NYPD Captain you play poker with – when you’re not fleecing your writing buddies?”

“Uh?”

Gina speaks very slowly, as if she’s dealing with the hard of thinking.  “You play poker with the Mayor, a judge, and an NYPD Captain.  Who is he?”

He stares at her, dumbfounded.  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Rick, wake up!  Use your pals, for once.  Surely an NYPD Captain can get you into an NYPD precinct?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, get off your miserable ass and ask him.  Who is he?”

“Roy Montgomery.”

“Precinct?”

“Don’t know.  Never asked.”

Gina tuts and taps.  “Found him.  This him?”  She turns her laptop round to show a smiling, mid-height African-American.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Okay.  What’s it say here….  Captain Montgomery, Twelfth Precinct.”

“What the hell?”  Castle is shocked into life.  “Twelfth?  But that’s Kate’s” –

“Oh, so she’s called Kate?”

“– precinct,” he finishes.  Knife-edge?  He’d been on the blade of a razor.  If Roy had seen him, the jig would have been up in no time at all.

Gina is tapping, and muttering.  Suddenly she looks up.  “Detective Kate Beckett?  _She’s_ your inspiration?  Christ, Rick, you’ve really done it now.  She must be the star of the precinct.  Did you look _anything_ up about her?  She’s way out of your league.  You idiot.”

“Uh?”

Gina reads off a list of commendations, with each of which Castle sinks further into his chair.  She doesn’t need him at all.  She didn’t care about his fame or fortune because she’s absolutely the best there is at her own job.  He has _nothing_ to offer her.

“How did you upset her anyway?”

Castle has no intention of discussing that.  None at all.

“You crossed paths with her and you hit on her, didn’t you?”

As an explanation, it’ll do.  It’s not entirely untrue.  He nods.

“Grovel, Rick.  Whatever you have to do to get her to forgive you, do it.”

“Why do you care?” he sulks.

“Because this series is going to be good, and I want my share of the income,” she says matter-of-factly.

That’s telling him, he supposes.  His heart is shattered, and Gina only cares about him making money.  Typical.

“Anyways,” Gina continues, “you better call up your pal Roy, and try to fix this.”


	12. Chapter 12

Two days after Gina had told him to call Roy, Castle still hasn’t picked up the phone.  He hasn’t dared try to call Kate, either.  He knows what she’ll do.  Cut the call.  Every single time.  It’s what she’s already done.  He can’t keep putting it off, because like it or not Gina is going to be on his back about it just as soon as he doesn’t turn in the edits.  Not that she’s sent him any edits yet, but he can feel them looming ominously, and he just _knows_ that they will require him to check details which he can only glean if he is actually at the precinct.

He steels himself.  He has to do this.  Apart from anything else, he’s utterly miserable, he can’t sleep, and all he wants is to go back in time and have a do-over.  Since time travel isn’t possible, he’s got to find a way to fix it.  He hasn’t so much as opened Word since she threw him out.  There’s nothing there: he has no words.  None.  His book – the book that started all of this – is no help.

He picks up his phone, finds Roy’s number, and dials.

“Roy?  It’s Rick Castle.”

“Hey, Rick.  This about the next game?  It’s your turn to host.  Been waiting for you to call and set a date.  This time, I’m gonna whup your writer’s ass and win back every cent you’ve fleeced me for.”  Roy sounds distinctly cheerful about that.

“That wasn’t why I called.”

“Oh?” Roy asks inquisitively.  “What d’you want, then?  Surely you haven’t been arrested.  I can’t help you with that.”

“No.”  Castle stops.

“So what is it?”

“Look, let me buy you a drink and explain.”

“Sounds interesting.  Okay.  Old Town Bar, around six-thirty.  Gotta go.  Sounds like we closed another case.”

Castle puts his phone down with a depressed thud.  He is quite certain that the voice he’d heard in the background was Kate’s.

* * *

Beckett has thrown herself into work in order to forget about Rick.  Anyway, he hasn’t called, so it must simply have been a game.  As soon as she’d worked it out, he’d dropped it without a single thought.  Just another stupid, blind, unknowing fangirl.  She doesn’t need to remember that, or anything about him.  And fortunately, there are still plenty of murders needing to be solved.  She retires into the haven of her job, the bullpen, and her team.  She’s good at that.  She’s comfortable there.  And she need never think about what had been, and what might have been.

Early in the afternoon, with considerable satisfaction, she approaches Montgomery’s office to report that they have discovered, apprehended, and brought in the latest in a series of dumb-and-dumber lowlifes. 

“Sir,” she starts, “we got” –

Montgomery waves her to silence, and she realises that he is on the phone, arranging his evening.  She slides off, and returns only when she’s sure that he’s done.

“Detective Beckett,” he smiles.  “More closures?”

“Yes, sir.  Got the Palermo perp.  Safely in Holding, ready for the DA.”  She grins back.  Montgomery notices that it’s a little forced, and his indefatigable detective appears a little tired.

“Good work.  Finish up and then get out of here.  I don’t want to see you at your desk after shift end.  Go see a pal, have a drink, relax.”  He continues to smile, but now it has a very Captainly flavour.  “Take a break.  It’s been a busy few days.”

Beckett sags, but says only, “Yes, sir.”

Montgomery watches her departing back, and smirks.  Beckett might think he doesn’t pay attention, but he does.  When she’s clearing cases at this rate, she’s spending too much time in the precinct, which always means that something has gone wrong in her personal life.  Last time, it was that lantern-jawed Fed.  Doesn’t know what he’s given up, in Montgomery’s opinion.  He’s no idea what or who it was this time, but there’s something up.  He surveys the bullpen, and notices without appearing to take any notice that Ryan and Esposito are regarding Beckett with caution.

It would, of course, be beneath his dignity as Captain to inquire.  It would also be unnecessary.  Troubles in Beckett’s life _raise_ the solve rate, they don’t damage it.  He need not interfere.  Yet.  If he catches her sleeping in the break room, though, he will.  That’s not on if a case isn’t hot.  Anyway, he’s made sure she’ll go home, or at least out of the precinct.  His duty is done. 

Beckett returns to her desk, gloomily, finishes off the paperwork, and wonders what to do with her evening.  Lanie’s busy.  Probably with some nice, normal, truthful guy.  And if he’s not, Lanie can poison him untraceably and dispose of the body, she thinks bitterly.  She doesn’t want a beer with the boys.  Maddie is busy with her chef job, and is never available evenings.  O'Leary is out of town.  Pete has apparently dragged him on a vacation.  Quite how Pete managed that she has no idea, since moving O'Leary is like moving Mount Rushmore.  She investigates the movies, and finds that there is nothing which she would willingly watch.  She has no good books (she winces at the thought of books).  She’s still not hungry, and anyway she’s avoiding Remy’s.  So far, her minimal eating and complete lack of appetite hasn’t made a difference.  It won’t make a difference to her for some time.

Her neat apartment is entirely tedious.  It has nothing to recommend it whatsoever.  She decides, for the thousandth time, that she should take a class in something interesting.  The only problem is that any time she tries to join a regular class, corpses drop in and she has to drop out. 

She’d _like_ to join something creative, but Stitch-n-Bitch only left her with bleeding fingers where she’d stabbed herself with the needle, knitting left her with a twenty foot scarf that was unwearable owing to the dropped stitches and consequent holes, and art was never her subject.  One concept of art is for the sketch to attain a resemblance to the subject of one’s drawing, and since she couldn’t manage that, and can’t claim to be either Picasso or Pollock, art is off the menu.  She can sing, but she’s not keen on the histrionics of amateur dramatists, and imposing calm with her gun is generally not well received.  Also, her innate dislike of chaos tends to lead her to impose order, which upsets the ostensible director.  All in all, joining an am-dram group is not a good plan.

None of which helps her in what to do with her blank, empty evening.  She reluctantly accepts that she has nothing to do and no-one to see, and unhappily curls up on her couch with bubblegum TV and nothing but misery as a companion.

Some time after eight, her door is firmly rapped.

* * *

“So what’s up, Rick?” Roy asks as he strides cheerily into the bar.  “You didn’t say much on the phone.  Not like you.”  He notices first the two glasses of whisky on the table, and then takes a good look at Castle’s face.  “You look like shit,” he says.  “What’s really up?”

Castle squirms uncomfortably.  “You know I was looking for a new character?”

“You might have mentioned it a couple of times,” Roy says very dryly, “a minute.”  Castle scowls at him, and then downs half his Scotch in one go.  Roy raises an eyebrow.  “What’ve you got yourself into this time?”

“I found one.”

“Thank God for that.  Does that mean I don’t have to listen to you yowling about your writer’s block any more?” he says unsympathetically.

“There’s a problem.”

“Yes?”  Roy is suddenly thoroughly suspicious.  Many years of cop work have honed his instincts to sharpness.  Rick Castle is hiding something major.

“She…um…”

“ _She_?”

“Yeah.  You think women can’t be the main character?” Castle snaps.

“No.  My best detective’s female.”  Much to Roy’s astonishment, Castle winces.  “Best clear up stats I’ve ever had.  Bit tightly wrapped, but she’s with a couple of good guys and it works.”

“Yeah.  Well.  Um.  About that.”

“You want to have a chat with Beckett to inform your character?  I guess I can try to arrange it, but she’s not likely to say much.  She doesn’t really talk much.”  Maybe his suspicions were misplaced.

“Er…”

“She probably won’t shoot you, if you don’t play the big celebrity.  She likes your books,” Roy continues happily.  “She thinks I don’t know that.  She doesn’t know I know you.”  Castle downs the rest of his whisky.  “Want another?”

“Yes.   Please.”

Roy wanders to the bar, and shortly wanders back with another couple of drinks.  Castle clutches his.

“So do you want me to let you into my bullpen to meet Beckett and her team?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you want, then?  You haven’t told me a thing, and you’re the one wanted to talk.  You’re not getting to follow me around, so don’t ask.”

“Um…”

“Rick, stop messing around and just spit it out.”

“She’s my new character.”

“ _What_?”  Roy grabs his drink and downs it in one gulp.  “How did you meet Beckett?”

“Not the point.  The point _is_ , I wrote the whole book.  But my agent wants it to be a series.”

“So what’s the problem?  And how come I never saw you in the bullpen?  Don’t tell me you didn’t want to be in and out the bullpen.  And if you’ve written the whole book, when did you meet her?  _Where_ did you meet her?  Don’t say you’ve been listening in on a scanner and interfering with crime scenes – actually, no, you can’t have done that because she’d have arrested you. Or possibly shot you.”

“I met her in a bar.  About six weeks ago.  I was blocked and she was moping about shooting some lowlife.”

“Oh, yeah.  That.  She was in the right.”  Roy’s mind works.  “Okay, so….  Oh.  You dumbassed bastard.  What did you do to upset her?  She’s been off form for the last three days and it’s your fault, isn’t it?  What the hell have you done, Rick?  Because there is no way I’m going to save your ass this time.  Beckett’s my people and you don’t get to mess with my people.”

“She didn’t know I was me.”

Roy stares gape-mouthed at him.  “How the _hell_ could she not know it was you?”

“Um…I told her I was Rick Rodgers.”

The table and Roy’s head make noticeable contact.  “You did _what_?  Are you crazy?”  His head hits the table again.

“Roy, I need your help.  I wanna fix it.”

“Fix what?”

“She found out I was Richard Castle before I got the chance to tell her.”  Castle’s wide shoulders slump.  “Roy, I wanna fix it.  I gotta fix it.  But she won’t talk to me.”

“Have you tried?”

There is a mutter.

“Have you?”

“I tried to apologise for being Richard Castle at her.  She wouldn’t listen.  Told me – well, Rick Rodgers me” – Roy boggles, and tries to follow Rick’s schizophrenic behaviour and unusually ungrammatical language – “how much she disliked me, and wouldn’t take any of my calls.”

“Hang on.  You pretended to be Rick Rodgers, ordinary guy, and she didn’t notice?”

“I looked a bit different as Rick Castle.  Rich.  Show-off.  I acted different, too.”

Roy shakes his head.  “You are in deep shit, Rick.”

“You have no idea,” Castle mutters.

“What are you expecting me to do?”

“I didn’t know she was your detective.  You can let me in.”

“Why?”

“So I can fix it.”

“Why should I care?  You’ve written enough books and made enough money that you don’t need this.  Why should I upset my best detective just to help you make more money?”

“It’s not that,” Castle emits miserably.  “It’s not about the books.”

“Really?  That’s all you’ve told me so far.”

Castle produces a miserable, embarrassed mutter that eventually becomes, “It’s her.”  Roy raises very interested eyebrows and looks very hard at Castle, clearly assessing his sincerity.

“You dumbass,” he says, without heat.  “Why’d you have to complicate it?”

Castle shrugs, because truthfully, the only answer he’s got is one he doesn’t want to give.  _Because I wanted not to be wanted for being a celebrity_ is both incoherent and arrogant; and it’s also completely no longer the truth.  _Because I’m totally in love with her and I can’t write without her_ is the truth, but he balks at the bald admission.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he drags out.  “I want to fix it.  C’mon, Roy.  You can help me by letting me in.”

“I could, but I don’t run a precinct for the dramatic value.  I run it to solve crime.”

“I need to fix it.”

“So go try to fix it outside my bullpen.  I’m guessing you know where Beckett lives.”  He looks sternly at Castle.  “I’m guessing she didn’t know where you lived.  Till she found out who you were.”

“But…”

“No buts.  You try to fix it outside the bullpen before I’m getting involved.  You might be my pal, but I’m not screwing up my team for you.”

Castle stares at his drink.  There isn’t enough alcohol in the glass to make Roy’s words palatable.  He’d hoped Roy would give him an easy in, but instead he’s reminded Castle that he’s ducking the confrontation.

“Okay,” he says.  But he knits his fingers around the whisky glass and doesn’t make a single move to leave. 

Roy regards him with a mixture of sympathy and irritation.  “It won’t improve with keeping,” he points out.  “Didn’t think you were yellow-bellied.”

“I’m not,” Castle flashes back.  “But I don’t want shot.”

Roy shrugs.  “Up to you.”  He drains his glass.  “But I wouldn’t leave it too long.  Beckett’s pretty quick to move past problems.  Anyways, time I went home.  Let me know when the next game is.”

Without further ado, Roy leaves.  Castle regards his departing back with unhappy annoyance, and acquires another whisky to soften the sting of his commentary.  When he’s finished it, in which pursuit he doesn’t hurry, he girds up his courage, summons all his nerve, and departs for Beckett’s apartment.  Now or never. 

He just wishes that the quote in his head wasn’t ‘Death or Glory’.

* * *

“You?” she says, in tones of loathing.  “What are _you_ doing here?”  She makes to shut the door, but Castle, having found his courage, shoves his foot in the way, and then the rest of his body.

“I want to talk to you.”  She looks entirely unwelcoming.  “I need to apologise.”

“Why bother?  I don’t want to hear it, and I don’t want to see you.”

She tries to shut the door again.  Castle being considerably bigger and stronger than Kate, it doesn’t work.  He pushes inside and shuts the door with himself on the inside.  It doesn’t improve anything.

“Well, I want to see _you_.  I want to talk to you.”

Kate turns her back on him, which would be childish if she weren’t so furiously, glacially angry.  He is perfectly certain that the only reason she hasn’t gone into her bedroom and shut the door in his face is because she knows he’ll follow her and she really, really doesn’t want him in her bedroom again.

“Kate, I’m _sorry_.”  Silence, and her rigid spine, are all the reply he receives.  “I just…”

“What?  What bullshit excuse are you going to come out with this time?”

“I didn’t make any excuses.”

“Nah,” she drawls sarcastically.  “Just told a whole bunch of lies.”

“I didn’t _lie_.”

“By omission,” she states.  That’s wholly true.

“I didn’t…”

“You didn’t.  Sure you didn’t.  Didn’t tell the truth, didn’t think it mattered, didn’t care what I might think.  Didn’t care about what damage you did.  Didn’t care.”

“I _did_ care.  Do.  Why’d you _think_ I’m here?”

“Why are you here?” she asks acidly.  “Because you wrote a book and now you need to finish it.”

“No!”  She simply looks at him.  “I” – her icy stare stabs through him – “didn’t want to spoil it.  I…”  He searches for the right words.  “You didn’t _want_ anything.  You didn’t _care_ who I might be.  You just treated me like I was Everyman.  It was…”He falls back on the entirely inadequate “ _nice_.”

“Nice for you, maybe.”

“I could just be me,” he tries to explain.

“Except you weren’t, were you?” she bites straight back.

“You weren’t – it wasn’t – I didn’t want someone who only wanted celebrity Richard Castle, okay?  You were the first person who hadn’t” –

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?  You didn’t tell me who you were so how do you know?” she fires in incredulous fury.  “You didn’t even take the time to find out.  You thought I’d be star struck and then even when you knew I wasn’t you didn’t have the guts to tell the truth.”

“You’d already decided you hated me,” he strikes back.  “You wouldn’t have listened.  You _didn’t_ listen, every time I tried to apologise.  Just like you’re not listening now.”

“Why should I listen to a liar?  You made this mess.  You’re the one who hid who you are and pretended you were an ordinary guy.  You’re the one who behaved like an arrogant jackass.  Not me.  I lo-” – she stops hard, takes a breath and restarts – “ _liked_ Rick Rodgers.  Shame he doesn’t exist.  You’re no substitute.”

Castle folds as if punched.  “He is real.  He’s me.”

“You’re no more real than he was.  Neither of you are real.  You’re both fake.”

“I’m as real as you are,” he yells, and takes the few strides that bring him to her, spins her round and – stops.  He drops his hands and steps back.  “Rick Rodgers is _real_.  He’s who I am.  Richard Castle is the PR invention.”

“No,” she says, almost sadly.  “Whoever you are, you’re not Rick Rodgers.  There is no Rick Rodgers.”  She turns back to the window, away from him, shutting him out. 

“Rick Rodgers is the guy who went to Remy’s with you.  The guy who listened to you when you were upset.  The guy” –

“The guy who ruined my last connection to my _mother_ ,” she cries.  “You knew that, and you just kept right on lying to me.”  He steps back from her fury.

“I _didn’t_ know till after you’d” –

“Met you,” she bites.  “Richard Castle.  Author, womaniser, jackass.  Just go.  There’s nothing more to say.”  She’s still turned away from him.

“If I’d known, I’d have done that evening completely differently.  But since I didn’t know, I couldn’t.  And how _exactly_ was I supposed to know you didn’t want the celebrity writer?  Everyone else does.  So you got the author, and you hated him, and then the _next_ day you told me why.  If I’d known, I’d never have done anything to hurt your memories.”

“But you did.” 

He can hear _something_ , just at the very edge of her voice, almost not there at all – and it falls into place and he steps back to her and, taking his life in his hands because surely she could kill him with her bare palms, turns her and finds expected, but still shocking, tears; gathers her against him as Rick Rodgers wouldn’t hesitate to do – hadn’t hesitated to do.  He can’t bear to see her so unhappy and not wrap her up, protect her from the world.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” she cries, and tries to push him away.


	13. Chapter 13

Castle refuses to move.  She’s so small and hurting against him, so ridiculously vulnerable and fragile.  He can’t leave her uncomforted.  He just can’t.

The massive error in his thinking becomes apparent to him about the point he hits the floor.

“I _said_ don’t touch me,” she spits.  He stares up at her.  “Try that again and you’ll be in a cell.”

“But” –

“I said _No_.  Or is that something else you don’t care about?”

“No!  I’ve never” –

“So what was that, then?”

“You were crying.  I just wanted to comfort you.”

Her expression says it all.  She doesn’t believe a word of it.  Castle realises that whatever he may have thought about her fragility, he was wrong.  Or – if not wrong, because she _was_ crying and she _is_ upset – she’s quite deliberately projecting her workaday interrogation self.

“Look,” he says desperately, still sitting where she’d dropped him on his ass with one well-judged hit, “I’m _sorry_.  I never, _ever_ wanted you to be hurt.  I” –

“Wanted to write a book.  Wanna tell me how that’s going?”  She pauses.  “Truthfully, if you can manage that.”

“I didn’t” – he stops, under her disbelieving gaze – “Okay.  Yes.  I did.  You were the first inspiration I’d had in months.  I had no words.  None.  And then I met you totally accidentally and it all came back and I didn’t need my book to write this one but just in case I kept trying to get it back and then _you_ had it all the time…”  He runs down.  She’s staring at him.

“Book,” she emits flatly.

“It’s with my editor,” he admits.

Her jaw crashes to the floor.  “ _What_?”

He cringes.  “Um…it’s finished.  I mean, Gina will want to edit it and make changes and ask dumb questions but it’s basically done.”

Kate makes a series of gleeping noises which add nothing to the situation.  She still looks like she might shoot him, but it’s now cut with utter confusion.

“You wrote a whole book?”

“Yes,” Castle babbles.  “It was just like it used to be when I first wrote and I could barely keep up with my brain and it was all right there and it was all because of you and then you actually liked _me_ not some PR jackass and I wanted to see more of you and I couldn’t stop writing and then it was all about you and then I found out it was you who bought my book at the fundraiser and the universe was just totally _not_ on my side and I didn’t want to spoil it when it was all going so well” – he finally sucks in a breath, but she’s incapable of speaking – “so… so I fucked up.”

She sits down hard on the couch.  Castle realises he’s still on the floor, but, in the first thing he might have done right since he came here, stays there.

“Damn straight you did.”  That doesn’t sound good.  Nor do the next words.  “I didn’t mean the book you” – her face twists – “said you _thought_ you might write.  The _story_.”  Acid burns less than her tone, but her eyes are brimming.  “I meant Casino Royale.  Your book.”

He’s as intimidated as he was when she fake-interrogated him.

“Was that just a line too?  See if I’d fall for your celebrity-showoff?  You were _testing_ me.  You didn’t trust me.”

“No!  I wanted my book.  I _needed_ my book back.  I knew if you knew I was me I’d lose you” –

“Whose fault would that be?”

“Because I’d” –

“Lied.”

“Well, yes, but that’s not the _point_ ” –

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s _not_.  The _point_ is that I needed my book back and I needed to write this book and I couldn’t lose you and then you wouldn’t let Castle-me apologise even when I kept trying and” –

“What’s so important about a beat-up copy of an old book?”

“I need it.  It’s…”  He stops, colours unhappily and shrinks into himself.

“What?” she snaps.

“It’s my inspiration,” he confesses.  She regards him with a piercing stare, drilling into him.  “I was given it when I was ten.  Some stranger in the New York Public Library.  And” – he squirms with embarrassment– “it made me want to write.  And then it was my” – he searches for the precise word under Kate’s searing glare – “talisman.”  He focuses on the floor.  “I knew it was there and when it was there I could always write and then I couldn’t and the book wasn’t there and I had no words.  None.”  He finally raises his eyes.  “And then I met you in that bar, and they all came back.”

She’s gone back to jaw-dropped dumbfoundment.

“I had to keep seeing you.”

“To write your book.”

Castle doesn’t answer, instead looking at the floor again.  The next sentence is not going to go down well, he just knows it.

“At first,” he says heavily.  Truth, far too late, is all he has now.  He doesn’t have Kate.  “But then it was you.”  He stops.  “And now I don’t need you for the book because it’s all written and anyway I can get into the precinct for answers if I have to because the Mayor is my poker buddy.”  He doesn’t mention Roy.  That _really_ won’t help him now.  She gapes, ashen.  “It was you.  Since about two weeks in it was all about you.”

He rises inelegantly from the floor. 

“I’d better go.  Just… whatever else you think, I never wanted you to be hurt.”

He walks out, closing the door quietly behind him, and makes his way to the elevator by touch, since he can’t see through his blurred eyes.  Nothing comes from behind him.  He hadn’t expected it to.

* * *

Behind the closed door, Beckett slumps on her couch and tries, fruitlessly, not to cry.  And then she goes for a shower where she can pretend to herself that the water pouring down her cheeks is only the spray, and rubs in her moisturiser when she can pretend she doesn’t remember Rick doing it for her, and goes to bed where she can pretend she’s perfectly content to be wrapped around a plump pillow.

In the morning she wakes up far too early, goes to the precinct, and spends well over an hour in the gym beating hell out of the bag and anyone stupid enough to take her up on the offer of a sparring match.  When she gets downstairs to the bullpen, she’s still well ahead of Ryan and Esposito; burying herself in her caseload: head down, back bent, and pursued by her misery.

He lied.  He lied all the way along, and she was as credulous as all the dumb women who ignore all the evidence and sit there crying _he would never_.  Well, he did.  Whatever he says, he lied and he knew he was lying.  She takes out her fury on her cases: slashing notes on her pad and hammering out e-mails and forms on her keyboard.

From his office, which he had reached without informing Beckett of his presence, Montgomery considers his options.  He’s more than a little horrified at the mess his pal and his best detective have got themselves into, though friendship certainly doesn’t prevent him thinking that Castle has made a complete circus of something that might have worked out rather well if the dumb cluck hadn’t tried to be clever.  Beckett, he notes, is doing just what she always does, which is ignoring the problem until it goes away.  He wonders if she’s worked out that the problem won’t go away, because like it or not Rick Castle is a megastar author and _anything_ he writes will be a very public bestseller.

She doesn’t look happy, he notes.  He also notes Ryan and Esposito taking a long, assessing look – when she can’t see them: he does not employ idiots – and then exchanging glances.  Montgomery rapidly infers from their expressions that they know more than Beckett thinks they do.  Okay then.  He doesn’t need to do anything at all – yet.

His happy inactivity is punctured when his email pings with a note from – aw, _shit_ – Rick Castle.  _That’s the last time I take your advice, Roy._   Seems it hadn’t gone well.  He knew _that_ already.  He doesn’t bother replying.  Rick won’t hesitate to tell him all about how bad his advice had been, at length and with considerable thesaurical repetition, next time they play poker.  He turns to his in-tray, which is almost as tedious as Rick’s commentary will be.

Round about lunchtime, the boys sidle up to Beckett’s desk.

“Want some lunch?” they ask.

“No, thanks.  I’ll go out later.”  Espo raises eyebrows at her.  “Shorter queues at my favourite sandwich bar.”

“Okay.”

Ryan and Esposito amble into the elevator.  As soon as the doors have shut, their demeanours change.

“Let’s go,” Ryan bites.

“Yeah.”

A fast trip in Espo’s cruiser later, the two of them are pulling up at 595 Broome Street.  They flash their badges at the doorman, who waves them through quite happily, stride up to Richard Castle’s apartment, and press sharply on the door buzzer. 

“Hello – what are you doing here?”

Espo pushes in, Ryan right behind him, and shuts the door hard.

“So it is you.  What did you do to Beckett?” Espo fires.  Normally, miscreants quail under that look and tone. 

“What the _fuck_ business is that of yours?” comes firing straight back.  “You got a reason to be here?  If not, leave.  Now.”

“What did you do?”

Castle’s face turns cold and hard.  “Did I invite you in?  No.  Have you got a warrant?”  Pause.  “No.  Get out, or be on the wrong end of a complaint.  And don’t think your Captain will get you out of it.  No warrant, no entry.  Out.”  He opens the door.

“You fucked with our friend.”

“Not your business.”  The door remains wide open.  Castle pulls his phone out, and flicks it on.  “Five seconds, or I dial 1PP.”

They leave, crestfallen.  Behind them, the door slams shut, echoing through the block.

Behind the door, Castle returns to his study and the closed lid of his laptop, the used glass from the night before: the detritus of long, unsleeping hours.  He wonders, miserably, if Beckett knew that her co-workers were going to try to start a fight.  He can’t imagine so, but then, he’d thought if he really tried to mend matters then it might have worked.  Instead he’s sitting here exhausted and wrung out: with no Kate, no inspiration, and no hope for either.

The day doesn’t improve.  Gina e-mails him, no doubt in a co-ordinated attack with Paula, who also e-mails him, with the publication schedule for Storm.  Paula adds the PR schedule.  The launch party is this Friday.  As in, two days from now.  His mood is not improved when he finds she’s attached the first round of edits, either.

Fuck.

Normally, he likes launch parties.  He’s the star of the show, there are lots of pretty women who want to talk to him, the champagne flows, and the royalty till starts chinking so fast he can’t keep track.  All the attention is on him, and everybody loves him.  He’s always loved that.

Till now.  Till he’s realised that he’s become a spoilt, arrogant jackass.  Till he’s realised that there are people out there who don’t like that.  Till he found someone who liked him as he used to be, before he was a star.

Till he found Kate.

Now, he’s not looking forward to it at all.  He’ll still have to play the star, the cocky, confident Rick Castle who’s only looking for his name on page six and his books to sell by the million.  He’ll have to go along with Gina and Paula’s plans to start trailing Nikki Heat.  He’ll have to be there on show, on form, all evening.

And he doesn’t want to go.

He doesn’t want to do any of it: he doesn’t want to play the star and flirt.  He just wants Kate, and to be able to go to Remy’s and not put on the PR shell; to ask her all his thousands of questions and see her roll her eyes and then grin and threaten to shoot him if he doesn’t let her eat her dinner; to be joshed and snarked at; then to hug her and to be kissed and be in bed with her; and finally to be cuddled together and just to be him.

He stays slumped in his office.  Eventually, a small idea percolates the fog of misery.  He could ensure that Kate was invited to the launch.  Not that she’ll come, but it’s something.  Anything.  She’ll know he won’t simply forget her.  He doesn’t want to forget her.

He _won’t_ forget her.  There has to be a way to fix this.

He has to fix this.

* * *

Ryan and Esposito hurry back, not forgetting to buy their lunches.  Neither of them wants to discuss the fiasco of the last half hour.  They hadn’t expected to be treated like that, and they don’t at all appreciate the verbal roughing up.  They’re the cops.  They should be treated with respect, not thrown out like the trash.  The fact that they had no cause and no right to do what they did is an unpleasant – and therefore ignored – curling in their guts.

They don’t give Beckett – who doesn’t appear to have any lunch yet – much more than a casual wave, and sidle back to their desks to dispose of their wraps and absolutely not talk about it.  Fortunately, Beckett doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, or indeed anything at all.  Shortly, she disappears: they presume that she’s gone to buy her lunch and conclude that she’s upset, but not devastated.

Beckett is upstairs in the gym, punching the bag again.  She’s not hungry.  She can’t drink any more coffee without bouncing off the walls.  And she absolutely does not want to be anywhere near Montgomery, who might involve himself in the whole damn mess.  Montgomery has a very nasty habit of involving himself when she really doesn’t want him to.  She doesn’t need him playing Papa Bear.

She thumps the bag until her knuckles hurt, and decides that after shift she’ll go out for a long run.  Tire herself out, and sleep the sleep of well-deserved exhaustion.  She’ll be fine.  She _is_ fine.

Fine lasts till almost the end of shift.  The boys are a tad nervy, but when she’s ripping through her in-tray they tend to stay well clear.  Montgomery doesn’t come near her, which is always a good result, because it usually means trouble – or interference.  She doesn’t want interference, and no doubt Richard- _I-get-anything-I-want_ -Castle will be hauling in the big guns.  Well, if the Mayor thinks he can force her to accept Richard Castle in the precinct he thinks wrong.  The union will back her, especially if she frames it as sexual harassment.  She doesn’t have to allow it, and she won’t.

And if all that defiance is covering a hard core of misery because it was all a lie and he never cared, along with covering her shattered heart, she’s not admitting it.  She’s certainly not admitting, even to herself, that she couldn’t bear to see him in the precinct and know it was all a fake.

But it’s all just fine.  Just.  Fine.  And shift will be over in half an hour and she can go home, go for her nice long run, have a lovely bubbly bath and some wine, eat her favourite takeout, and move on.

Then her e-mail pings up.   She doesn’t recognise the sender, but since it’s not been blocked by the spam filter it can’t be a prince offering her a share of zillions if only she’ll send a thousand dollars and her bank details now.  She opens it with some interest.

No.  No no no _no!_   Go to the Storm launch party?  This is a sick joke and she is _not playing_.  No.  Way.  No freaking way.

“Detective Beckett?”

Oh God.  Not Montgomery too.  Why now?  Twenty eight minutes and she’d have been gone.  What has she done?  What does he want?  Why her?

She stands up and follows him, murmuring, “Yes, sir?”

“My office.”

She’d rather guessed that, since that’s where he’s aiming.  She trails along behind him.  She knows she isn’t going to enjoy the next few moments.  She just doesn’t know what’s wrong.  Yet.  She hasn’t – never has – shirked, she hasn’t asked for leave, her clear-up rate is excellent (as usual).  There is no good reason to be hauled into Montgomery’s office.

She stands at parade rest, concealing her nervousness at the click of the closing door.  Montgomery sits behind his wide desk, and regards her with interest and some amusement.  Not a carpeting, then.  Somehow that’s not reassuring either.

“I have a dilemma, Beckett.”

“Sir?”  What’s that got to do with her?

“I have to attend a formal function.  However, my wife cannot attend with me” – he makes a face, which Beckett entirely understands.  The whole precinct knows that Montgomery only likes functions if his wife can go too. 

“Sir?”

“It occurs to me that you would be a good substitute.  I’d rather Evelyn came, but if not, you’re a good advert for the NYPD.”

“Sir?”  Beckett boggles.

“I need a plus-one for Friday.  Formal.  Dress up.  Evelyn can’t come.  You’re it.  Find a smart dress and we’ll go straight from here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

It’s not till she leaves Montgomery’s office that Beckett realises that she now has the perfect excuse to decline her unwanted invitation.  She’s already committed to another occasion.  She taps out a decline in nothing flat, and breathes a huge sigh of relief.  Twenty minutes later, precisely on shift end, she leaves.  She hasn’t had – and didn’t expect to have – a reply.

Safely in his office and out of view of the bullpen, Roy Montgomery grins evilly.  It’s a huge shame that Evelyn has some school matter on Friday, because she’d have enjoyed the Storm launch party immensely.  Still, every cloud has a silver lining, and this way he can put Beckett in proximity to Castle and give them a chance to fix their collective screw-up.  Beckett will be cheerier, which is good: he can’t afford the overtime bill if she works 24/7, which she will try to do if miserable; and Castle won’t bend his ears with complaints and constant whining for assistance.  Roy could clearly see the next request heading straight down the track – that Castle be allowed into the precinct – and he doesn’t think that would produce bullpen harmony. 

He makes a note to remember to dress sharply on Friday, and turns back to his never-ending in-tray, smirking.


	14. Chapter 14

On Friday evening Castle regards himself in the mirror with disfavour.  He’s sporting designer stubble – which itches – beautifully styled hair – which makes him look vain – and expensive shirt, jacket and pants.  He is, in fact, the epitome of the celebrity star writer and playboy darling of page six.

He loathes it.

He pastes on a high-wattage commercial smile, and drags out to find Alexis and his mother dressed to the nines and ready to go.  The picture is, however, slightly dented by Alexis’s small carrier of schoolwork.

“Homework?”

“I have a test Monday.  I need to revise.”

“At a launch party?”

“No-one’s going to be looking at me, Dad.  I’m not going to waste the time.”

Castle sighs.  “Okay, pumpkin.  Let’s go.”

“Yep, kiddo.  Time for some silver mining.”

“I really, really don’t want to know what you mean by that, Mother.  I’m sure I won’t like it.”

“Pish.  A little flirtation is good for me.  It would be good for you, too.  You’ve been moping round for a week or more.  Whoever she is, she doesn’t want you.  Move on.”

Too right she doesn’t want him.  She’d turned down the invitation – he’d expected that – and said she had another invitation.  Which he had definitely _not_ expected.  She’s already moved past him, in less than two weeks.  And sure, he doesn’t think that she’s tearing up the sheets with some other guy, but clearly she’s gone back out there so it’s only a matter of time and inclination.

He shoos his mother and daughter out to the limousine, ushers them into it, joins them, and tells the driver to go.  By the time they’ve got to the launch party, he’s pulled on his game face and fallen into the playboy personality: smiling (smirking) and flashing white teeth, exuding charm, wit and personality.  All of it is totally fake.  Almost as fake as Gina’s pasted on smile and rousing introduction.

However, he’s inherited a whole bunch of his mother’s talent, and right now he’s using every last iota of it to hold himself out as Richard Castle. 

He finishes his speech, jumps down from the stage, collects a glass of champagne (got to keep up the act) and manages to resist the temptation to down it in one and carry right on till he can’t see straight any more.  Only the knowledge that Alexis is here stops him.  He sits in a celebrity-obvious spot at the bar and lets the party swirl around him; smirks wolfishly and signs autographs and chests as required till his hand hurts and he’s ready to ram the Sharpies down the next fan’s throat; and under it all is utterly miserable.

He’d liked being real.  Now he’s back to being a fake.

* * *

“What’s this event, sir?”

“A major PR opportunity for the NYPD, Beckett.  The mayor, a couple of judges, and a lot of movers and shakers will be there.  I wish Evelyn could have come.”

Beckett relapses into quiet.  Roy is only too glad of that, since he has no desire to lie, less to be interrogated and even less to deal with the upshot of truthful answers.  Being shot is painful, and he has no desire to experience it again.  That’s why he decided to rise up the ranks.

He notes with some relief that there are no external posters or PR materials around the hotel where the launch party for Storm Fall is being held, politely waits for Beckett to extract herself, smiles approvingly at her elegant posture and even more elegant dress – plain black, he notices, not too short or too low-cut.  Excellent.  Now, if only he can get them into the function before Beckett boots her brain up, he has a chance of surviving.  He could – and will – pull rank, but he has no actual or moral authority to have done this or to pull rank about it.

He saunters down the corridor with a still-silent Beckett as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Beckett does not want to be here.  Beckett wants to be at home in her cosy apartment without anyone to disturb her.  Beckett wants half a ton of coffee ice-cream and her vodka bottle, possibly combined with a hot bubble bath to wash her troubles away.

Beckett does _not_ want to be at some political (she assumes, from Montgomery’s description) function where she is on display.

She doesn’t even know who this is for, though it’s very glitzy for a political do.  There’s a whole lot of showbiz going on, which seems odd, and there are a very, very large number of very, very pretty, over-inflated women in very, very revealing dresses.  Though it’s odd that they’re all looking a little put out – and even more odd that the ones who are pouting most unhappily have ink across their cleavages.  Weird.  Maybe it’s some new form of showing support for a candidate, though Beckett would have thought that it would outrage the Moral Majority and _lose_ votes, net-net.  There are no posters or banners, either.

Still, not her problem.  She does have a problem, however.  She is thirsty.

“I’m going to get a drink, sir – soda.  Would you like something?”

“I’ll come with you.  Don’t you want some whisky with your soda?”

“No, thank you.” 

No, she doesn’t.  Well. Yes, she absolutely does.  And then lose the soda, but keep all the whisky, several times over.  However, that is a career limiting move in front of one’s Captain and when she’s been told that she’s to be a good advert for the NYPD.  Montgomery shrugs, and they meander towards the bar: Montgomery smiling and shaking hands with far too many people for Beckett’s comfort, with a slightly sneaky smile.

“What the _hell_?”

Beckett starts backing away from the bar at a rate of knots that wouldn’t disgrace a Coastguard cutter in hot pursuit.

“What’s he doing here?” she hisses at Montgomery, who despite his rank and age squirms like a small boy caught throwing spitballs at recess.

“Er….  It’s his launch party.  I was invited, Evelyn couldn’t come, and I knew you liked the books.  You could get one signed.  You were irritated you didn’t manage anything at that fundraiser, so I heard.”

“I don’t want a signed book, and if I’d known it was this launch party I wouldn’t have agreed to come.  Sir.”  The last word is bitten out.  Montgomery winces.  Beckett has clearly seen straight through his subterfuge.  Shit.

He winces a lot more a half-minute later.  Castle is bearing down on them, already starting to talk.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he babbles, straight past Montgomery with his whole heart beating on his sleeve.  “I’m so glad you came” –

“I didn’t know you would be here,” Beckett says icily.  “I wasn’t told what this was.”  She favours Montgomery with a glacial glare.  “Now that I do, I’m leaving.”  She meets Montgomery’s eyes.  “Unless my superior officer forces me to stay.”

Montgomery winces again.

“Don’t go,” Castle pleads. 

“Detective, you are here as a representative of the NYPD.”

Montgomery should drop dead on the spot.  Beckett’s mouth snaps shut on something that would get her fired forthwith, pushes past Castle without excuse or apology, and reaches the bar, where she obtains a glass of something – anything – alcoholic and throws it back in one mouthful.  She then stalks off to the restroom, until she can calm herself to the point where she isn’t going to do something that will _still_ get her fired forthwith.  It’s really just as well she doesn’t have her gun.

Several moments and a lot of cold water on her hands and face later, she has cooled down to merely an inferno.  She still wants to consign Montgomery to the infernal depths, but she might not _say_ so.  Or at least she might use fewer curse words.  That rat sneaky double-crossing _bastard_.  She swears sulphurously and continuously for a full five minutes, which makes her feel better too.

Of course, it also covers up the rip through her heart that she thought was mending.  Just one sight of Ri- that lying, fake, uncaring _bastard_ about whom she doesn’t give _one_ flying fuck.  Not _one_.

Oh, hell.  She sits down hard on a handy chair (a very smart hotel, this.   It doesn’t cheer her) with her head in her hands and tries very hard not to sniffle.  A few more moments later, she repairs her make-up and leaves the restroom.  Montgomery is hovering, looking a touch sheepish.

“Beckett?”

“Sir,” she says with perfect formality and icy chill.  “I’m going home.”

“And if I order you not to?”  Roy knows he has no right to give that order.  Half a second later he realises that, far more importantly, _Beckett_ knows he has no right to give that order.

“I don’t believe you can.  Sir.”

“Look, he hurt you.  But his heart’s so far down his sleeve it’s practically in his palm.  He’s really sorry, Beckett.  And you aren’t exactly happy either.”

“No, I’m not happy.”

Roy starts to smile at her.  “Then fix…”

“I’m not happy that some rich asshole celebrity lied to me for six weeks and pretended he was an ordinary guy who thought he’d try to write a book.”

The smile runs away, like dirty water down the drain.

“I’m not happy that he couldn’t tell me the truth when he found out I’d bought some dumb book that he’d got age ten.”

Wincing occurs.

“But most of all, I’m _not happy_ that he ruined the last good memories I had of my mother.  You remember, _sir_?  My mother who was murdered?”

Roy cringes.  That last point had not been made known to him.

“He can say _sorry_ till Kingdom Come but he can’t make that better.  No-one can make that better.”

“You won’t even let me _try_ ,” comes from behind her.    “You’re still blaming me for something I didn’t even know and you won’t even listen to me when I try to apologise.”

“You _lied_.”

“Yeah, I did.  And you know what, if it wasn’t for your mom in the mix you’d have listened.  Sure you’re entitled to be angry, but you’ve got fixated on the one thing that I _wasn’t_ to blame for and mixed it up with everything else.”

Beckett spins on her heel and stalks out.

“That…backfired,” Roy says.

“ _You think_?”

Castle spins on his heel and walks out in the same direction as Beckett.

Roy decides to walk in the other direction.  Much safer.

Right up until a blonde virago descends upon him.

“Where the _hell_ is Rick?  What have you done with him?  You were the last person who spoke to him so get him the fuck back here _right fucking now!_ ”

Her language doesn’t match her cool, classy demeanour.  He _knew_ he should have brought Evelyn.

* * *

“Kate,” Castle calls.  “ _Kate_!”

He takes several long strides and catches her up on the sidewalk – and then simply catches her, because he can tell that she’s almost crying and he _still_ can’t stand to hear her pain.

“Go away.”

“Nope.”  She’s stiff and resistant under his hand on her shoulder.  “I didn’t know Roy was going to bring you.”  No response.  “But since he did, can we just _talk_?”  He pauses.  Seems to him he’s done a lot of talking, but Kate hasn’t really done any.  “Can _you_ talk?  Explain?”  Another pause.  “Look, you’re not just really mad, you’re really unhappy too.  C’mon.  Let’s go somewhere you can yell at me for hours and then” – he swallows, because this is a truly high-risk strategy – “I’ll never come near you again if you don’t want me to.  But first, _talk_ to me.”

When she still doesn’t respond, he whistles down a cab, shoves her into it, and joins her.

“595 Broome Street,” he tells the driver.  Kate huddles into the corner and says precisely nothing, very coldly, as it pulls out too quickly for her to leave it.  “We’re going to mine,” he explains.  “You can yell as much as you like because no-one’s in – _oh shit_!”

He frantically pulls out his phone and taps a key. 

“Alexis?”

“Dad?”

“Yeah, look, can you stop Grams from doing anything dreadful?  I’ve had to take a little time out.”

“I’d guessed.”

“How?”

“Because Gina’s completely lost it.  I didn’t know she knew all those words.  She’s really creative when she starts down the torture line.”  There’s a slight hitch.  “She’s berating” –

“Good word, daughter mine.”

“– some guy who – she’s yelling” – Castle can hear it in the background: once heard never forgotten – “was the last person to see you.”

“Ah.  Is he an older African-American?  Not too tall, quite neat?”

“Yeah.  How did you know?”

“Ah.  Well.  Yeah.”

“Dad,” Alexis says with infinite suspicion, “what have you done?”

“It wasn’t me.  But…um… that’s one of my poker buddies.  Roy Montgomery” –

“What the _hell_?” Beckett returns to life with a nuclear megaton bang.  “My Captain is _your_ poker buddy?”

“Dad, who’s that?”

“Um…”

“And what’s Mr Montgomery got to do with being a Captain?”

“Um…”

“Dad, _what have you gotten into this time_?” Alexis screeches.

Castle cuts the call.  The phone rings again, instantly.  The timing prevents Kate from actually killing him, which from the blaze in her eyes is around one nanosecond away.

“Alexis, this is _not the time_.”

“It so is.”

“Damn straight it is,” Kate bites.

“Who _is_ that?”

“Detective Beckett.”

There is a very tiny silence.  “So that’s your new inspiration.”

“Er…” Castle says, which is, at least, a variation on “um”.

“She doesn’t sound happy.”

“She’s not.”

“And what has Mr Montgomery got to do with all this anyway?  Should I rescue him from Gina?”

“Rescue him?”

“Hell, no!” Kate yells.

“O-kayyyyyy,” Alexis drawls, in backing-away-slowly mode.  “I think I’ll stay out of this one.  You’re on your own, Dad.  When’s the car home booked for?”

“Eleven,” he answers automatically.  “Make sure Grams comes with you.”

“Bye.”

“Ya know, this is as good as ABC,” the taxi driver twangs.  “I gotta say, I’d love to hear the rest, but we got to your place five minutes ago and while I can keep the meter running as long as you guys wanna fight, you might wanna take this inside.”

Castle flushes.  Kate doesn’t move.  He gives the driver fifty, opens the door, and waits.

“Lady, either give me an address or step out so I can get a new fare.”

She steps out, with a decidedly infuriated clack, and follows Castle up to his apartment.  He begins to hope that just maybe he can get to the bottom of the mess he’s – well, not exactly made.  Not alone – walked into.

“Do you want a drink?” he says carefully.  “Wine?  Soda?  Coffee?”

“No.  Thank you.”

That’s not a good start.  On the other hand, she is here.  No more than three inches inside the door, but still, here. She sweeps one comprehensive glance around, snags on the bookshelves, marches across the room, sears it with another laser-guided look, and turns round.

“I work in an office,” she snaps with razor sarcasm.  “That one?”  Castle nods.  “I see.” 

So does Castle.  He sees Kate’s temper being held down by a cobweb.  He sees a flood tide of emotion held back by a strand of silk.  And he sees the dark circles under her eyes, and the sharper edges of her cheekbones, and the tight, white, pinched lips.  His Kate is on the edge.

“You can go look if you want to,” he says blandly.  She emits a subsonic growl.  “While I make coffee.  I want one, even if you don’t.”  He wanders off to the kitchen and fusses with his coffee maker and two cups, which helps to ensure that she can’t see his crossed fingers and worried expression.  He’d _thought_ she’d take – was taking – the offer to yell out her anger and then talk, but she’s still totally locked down –

“What the _fuck_ is this?”

Oh, hell.  Oh, _hell_.  He’d printed out the edits so he could pretend he might work on them.  Oh, _hell_.  She’s walked into his office and looked around and – oh my God she is still a fan because she’s _seen_ the edits.

And now he is about to die.

Or maybe he isn’t, because there is silence.  No hard clack of heels, presaging the machine-gun fire of her words; no vitriolic tone; no movement.  No slamming outer door.

No tears.  No sound.

Nothing.

He essays a tiny peek around.  She’s still in his study, sitting in his chair, bent over his desk.  Soft vibration, barely noise, feathers his ears: the soft rustle of paper, of turning pages.

She’s reading.

Castle slides out of the kitchen with only his own coffee, sets it on the table without a click, finds a book from upstairs – he’s not going to go near the study – and settles down on the couch in absolute silence.  He doesn’t neglect to silence his phone, either.  Gina will remember to call at some point, though she may have cut out Roy’s liver and fried it into canapes first.

At around half-past ten, when there hasn’t been a sound from the study for two hours, Castle pads softly back upstairs to the guest room and closes the door.

“Pumpkin?”

“Dad?  You are in so much trouble with Gina.”

“Yeah, well, she’ll just have to suck it up.”  Alexis whistles.  “She will.  This was more important and anyway all I was doing by then was sitting at the bar being hit on.”

Very fortunately, Alexis doesn’t comment on that.  At all previous launch parties, Castle would have been in his element, and flirted extensively until the party ended.

“Why are you calling?  It’s not eleven yet.”

“Um-er… could you and Grams stay in the hotel tonight?”

“ _What_?  Are you” –

“No!  But I really want to make this right and interruptions aren’t going to help – you wouldn’t but can you imagine what Grams might do?”

“Or who,” Alexis says cynically.  Castle makes a disapproving noise.  “Last time I saw her she was up close to a very distinguished looking sixty-something.  I think the main attraction was the Audemars Piguet, though.”

“How did you know that?” Castle asks, distracted.

“Grams told me.”  Ah.  That makes better sense.

“Okay.  Look, if I can get a room for you tonight will you and Grams just stay at the hotel?  And would you tell Grams?”

“Okay,” Alexis answers amiably.

“I’ll text you in a minute or two.”

“Okay.  Bye.”

Castle has a brief conversation with the hotel, after which he texts Alexis the details and, with some relief but not a little guilt, returns to the book and another coffee.  There has still been not a sound from the study.

And then there is.  A very familiar sound.


	15. Chapter 15

Castle sneaks a peek through the open bookshelves, and finds that Kate’s head is cradled in her arms on his desk.  Despite that, he can hear small sounds of misery escaping, though surely she’d imprison them if she knew that.  He forces himself to sit tight.  It’ll work.

It so doesn’t work.  He lasts all of ten seconds before he’s up and padding over to the study door.  She doesn’t notice.  She doesn’t notice when he arrives at the desk, or on her side of the desk, or stands right next to her.

She does notice when he plucks her out of his chair and simply holds her, tucked against his chest and this time _not_ pushing him away.  She feels…exhausted: limp against him, too tired for anger.  He picks her up and drops them both into an armchair.  He can’t bear to let go of her: now that she’s back in his arms where she ought to be.  He can’t see her face, and he can’t hear anything but faint, attenuated breathing.  If she’s crying, he wouldn’t know it.

He stays cuddling her, nose nuzzled into her hair: that same soft scent of cherries taking a sledgehammer to his calm.  The last time he’d smelled it they’d been snuggled together in her bed.

“You never met her.”

Huh?  That came out of left field.  “What?”

“You never met her and you _said_ you didn’t know till after so how could you know?”

“Know what?”  Castle is completely confused.  On the other hand, he is not dead.  This is good.  Surprising, but good.

“Know how it felt.”

That doesn’t really help.  He waits, hoping that something will indicate what she’s talking about, since he hasn’t the slightest idea.

“You told all those lies so how could you ever tell the truth like that?”  Pause.  “How could _you_ know how it felt?”

Ah.  Oh.  Mixed with terror of what might happen next is absolute delight that he’d totally got the deeper emotions of his lead character. 

“I just listened,” he rumbles quietly.

“I didn’t say any of that,” she whispers.  “None.”

“Not in words.  Mostly not in words,” he corrects.  “Intonation, expressions, in your eyes….”  He bites his tongue on _your eyes say everything_.  She might realise she’s still all tucked up against him: not that he can see her eyes.

“How could you understand that and _not_ understand what you were doing?”

“I tried to apologise as soon as I found out and you wouldn’t take a single one of my calls!”

“But you kept being Rick Rodgers.  Why didn’t _he_ explain?”

Which is, of course, the whole rotten core of the whole rotten apple of this whole rotten mess.

“Because…” he starts, looks at the rest of that sentence and doesn’t like it, rethinks it and loathes it, and then decides that matters really can’t get any worse anyway, so… “Because I – _Rick Rodgers_ – didn’t want to lose you.  But I did anyway, so what does it matter?”

His arms drop away as the silence stretches out and she doesn’t seem to react at all.

“You won’t talk, you won’t listen, you don’t care enough to fight about it.  Whatever.  I can’t do anything about this.”

He puts her off to one side and goes through to his bedroom.  “Let yourself out.  I won’t bother you again.”  The door shuts behind him, and he slumps down on his bed until he can force himself into the bathroom to wash before sliding down past the pillows, a headache nagging at his temples for which he dry swallows two painkillers.

If reality is this painful, why did he ever think he’d like it?  He should have stuck to his comfortable celebrity bubble where everyone always loved him and nothing ever went wrong.  He was happy there.

Now he’ll never be happy there again.

But he won’t be happy here either.

Lose-lose.

* * *

Beckett stands, disconnected, for a moment: unable to think or move.  Then she sits back down, turns back to the beginning, and starts again. 

Her first read, maybe a quarter of the pages, had been fast.  Really fast: the skim technique she uses for getting first impressions from any report.  Even so, the emotion had sprung from the page, clawing at her: she’d flipped pages as fast as she could turn them over to escape it, and failed.  He’s caught the truth about how she felt about her mother.  How she _feels_ : the pain and the grief and the endless lack of answers.

She can’t put it down.  She has to know how he’s done it.  How can a proven liar hit the truth so point-perfectly, fatally accurately?  She starts to read again. 

* * *

In the morning, Castle staggers out of his bedroom unrefreshed and utterly miserable, stumbles through the study and out into the family room –

Where he stops, turns, stares and backtracks.

Asleep, head on his desk, mascara trailing down her cheeks and – he peers – dark, damp splotches on Gina’s edits – is Kate. 

She might be asleep, but she still looks more exhausted than rested; her eyes are still circled and shadowed.

It’s not until he’s emptied his first cup of triple-strength espresso that he realises that she didn’t leave.  She must have read for half the night.  She’s been reading the unedited (half-edited) draft, again.  Oh God.  Oh God oh God oh God.  He hadn’t noticed.  She hadn’t left and _he hadn’t noticed_.

He makes himself another triple-strength espresso, downs that too, and then makes two lattes, padding back to the study and placing one near Kate’s nose.  Then he sits down and waits.

It doesn’t take long.  Coffee works just as well when she’s asleep here as it would if she were asleep at home.  Her eyes flutter, her nostrils twitch, and under Castle’s interested eyes she stretches, winces, emits an _ow_ , and finally opens her eyes fully.  They focus on the coffee, which hits the back of her throat and kick-starts her brain.

“Ugh.”  She stretches again.  “Ow.”  She looks around.  “What?  What am I doing here?”  Her eyes reach Castle.  “Why am I here?”

“You didn’t leave,” he says. 

She attempts a glare, which doesn’t quite work since she isn’t fully awake. 

“I thought you were going to leave,” he adds.  “You wouldn’t talk, or yell, or even have a fight.  So why _are_ you here?”  He doesn’t say – _crying all over my manuscript_.

She looks at him through huge, dark, deep eyes: fancifully, he thinks he can see to the bottom of her soul.

“She’s there.”

For the first time, he follows.

“She’s in there.  In her memories.”  He even follows the confused pronouns.  “You never met her and you put her in there.”  She gropes for a Kleenex.  “I had to know.  What you made of her.  How you made her out of _my_ memories and how you put them all in there.”  She gulps.  “I didn’t tell you any of it.”

Castle says nothing, not moving.

“How could you see the truth like that?  How could you find her?  How could you write reality when nothing you did was real?”

“I told you: I listened.”  He gulps in his turn.  “Everything you said.  It was real.  Real like Storm wasn’t.”  He swallows hard.  “I could be real.  I didn’t have to be Richard Castle and I _liked_ it.  Yeah, sure, I was writing like I haven’t in years, but I didn’t want to lose the reality.”  He gulps.  “You.  You just wanted me and then I couldn’t fix it when you hated him, but I only wanted to make sure you didn’t think I was him and I tried to apologise once I knew what had happened.”

His wide, agonised eyes lock on to hers.  “I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known what they meant to you but I _didn’t_ _know_.  I wish I had….”  He trails off.  He hasn’t moved from his armchair.

“How can you say you didn’t know?  You _wrote_ it.  You _did_ know.  How could you not?”

“ _After_ ,” he cries.  “After you told me about it in Remy’s.”

Her mouth is already opening on rebuttal, but that snaps it closed.

“After?” she queries, very cautiously.

“After.”

There is a long, tense silence.  Kate’s eyes are unfocused, thoughts running over her expression far too fast for Castle to follow. 

Suddenly she stands.

“Excuse me,” she mutters, and goes out and – oh.  Up the _stairs_?  Much becomes clear as faint noises of a door shutting reach him.  Of course, she’d never been here…and she must have…er….  Yes.  Unless she’s a camel, which really does not seem likely.  He shuts off that particularly dumb line of speculation.  Otherwise she’d have gone through…his…bedroom….  This is a really unhelpful thought.  Truly unhelpful.

Going after her will be even less helpful, though as her absence extends it becomes more likely. 

He washes and dresses, sips his coffee, makes a horrible face because it’s stone cold, and pads out to make yet more coffee.  He’ll be peeling himself off the ceiling if he has much more caffeine.  It won’t make the slightest difference to Kate, though: it never has before.

He’s placidly – externally – brewing the coffee when Kate returns from upstairs.  

* * *

Beckett had taken advantage of some cleanser – likely belonging to the daughter he’d mentioned – to remove the black streaks of mascara and the rest of yesterday’s make-up: wash her hands and face and endeavour to finger comb her hair into relative tidiness.  Nothing can be done about the creases in her dress, or the uncomfortable knowledge that she would really like a shower and clean clothes.

Or, indeed, the uncomfortable knowledge that – however little she likes his _lie_ – his words have brought her mother right back to her.  She sits on the edge of the bath and tries not to cry any more.  She should be past the tears.  Remember the good times.

And yet, the emotions and pain of his fictional heroine had leapt from the page and brought back how she had felt then: how she still, sometimes, feels now – how she sometimes needs a little help to keep going, and how she finds it in the memories of her mother and the stories of good guys winning in the end.

The good guy – gal – had won in the end.  Just like she tries to.  Just like she almost always does.  But it hadn’t come without a cost.

 _As long as the book speaks to you_ , he’d said.  This book had spoken: told her the story of her own personal Golgotha; the subsequent quiet grave in Cypress Hills which she visits now and then; and now, in its beautiful prose, given her the resurrection of her mother’s calm voice and joy in each small win.

Joy in her life: that’s what she remembers of her mother.  Even on the days when she failed, her mother would come home, watch Temptation Lane, or read a Richard Castle novel: simple pleasures where right would always win in the end.  She’d have, in the end, a lurking twinkle in her eye, a tiny quirk of her lips.  She’d always seen the joy in the day, the hour, the moment.  In their home.

Oh.

That’s why she’d been so comfortable with Rick Rodgers.  He’d had that same ability to take joy in everything: burger and milkshake at Remy’s; a small Italian restaurant; coffee and takeout and her.  He’d bounced round the whole time with insatiable enthusiasm for life in general, seeing the small opportunities for happiness and gentle pleasure.

It had reminded her of her mother; of a loving home. 

So when she’d found out his lie – it had taken her mother away twice over, because she’d lost the books and she’d lost all faith in joy, again.  She hadn’t realised how happy she’d been made by his endless capacity for happiness in the smallest of things; how much it had returned her to the happiness in which she’d grown up, spread wings, and flown.

Until it had all collapsed around her, and the emotional earthquake had, unnoticed, uncovered long-scabbed wounds. 

She’d overreacted, and hadn’t realised it: not seen that it was the rerun of a much greater, earlier loss.  So she’d pushed everything away from her exactly as she had that first time: rid herself of everything that reminded her of it.  Then, she’d quit Stanford, left the family home, given up on being a lawyer, given up on her father.  This time, she’d quit the relationship and refused to take his calls.  Refused to have contact with either of him.

Rick Rodgers was everything she didn’t know she’d been missing.

Richard Castle was everything she didn’t want to know about.

 _Rick Rodgers is real.  He’s who I am.  Richard Castle is the PR invention_.  That’s what he’d said.  _Rick Rodgers is real_.  _I could be real.  I didn’t have to be Richard Castle._

But he’d lied.

But Rick Rodgers had made her happy.  Richard Castle wouldn’t have made her – _hadn’t_ made her – happy.

If only he hadn’t lied… she’d never have got to know him.

She wipes her face, checks for smudges and, finding none, goes back downstairs.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

He doesn’t say anything more, but brews the coffee and hands her a mugful.  Beckett stares into it, hoping it’ll provide some words.  Words don’t come easy to her.  She looks up from the dark liquid, to find him watching her: face tired, eyes hoping for a miracle which he doesn’t expect.

Somehow, that makes a difference.  He doesn’t expect anything.  Richard Castle, celebrity superstar, expects things: pretty women, cocktails and the Pegu Club, limousines and red carpets, fame, fortune and (by reputation) fucking.

Rick Rodgers, who is standing here next to her with a mug of coffee and a desperately hopeful demeanour, never expected anything, and still doesn’t.  _I won’t bother you again._   And he isn’t.  He’s waiting for her.  _I didn’t want to lose you, but I did anyway, so what does it matter_?

“What did you want?” she says.

“You,” he answers simply, and his eyes are clear and truthful.

“Why?”

There is a silence.  He’s staring into his coffee just like she had a few moments ago.

“First it was inspiration.  I’d lost my book and I was blocked but I met you and it came back.  I can’t deal with not being able to write.  It’s not the money or the fame or anything: I _have_ to.  It was like losing an arm and then it came back.  I _told_ you that.  But then it was just you.  I could be real with you because you didn’t want anything or need anything and I wanted that and I think I was already falling in love with you right then.”

There is a loud crash and coffee spreads across the floor.

“What?”

Rick stares at her, as shocked as she is.

“I… I…” he babbles, and then takes a proper breath.  “I think I was falling in love with you right then,” he repeats firmly.  Mostly firmly.  There’s a betraying stammer as he ends.

“You _fell in love with me_?” she squeaks, two octaves above her normal mezzo, frozen in place with the coffee puddling around her shoes.

“Rick Rodgers fell in love with you.”

A half-beat pause.

“So who are you?” she challenges.  “Which one are you?”

“I’m the one who knows you well enough to write your mother back to you!”  Another percussive shock.  “Does it really matter who I am if I brought her back for you?”  He takes a shaken breath.  “It… it was the only way I could even try to make amends.”

He wrote her mother back to her?  Intentionally?  As soon as he’d heard how he’d upset her?  That’s one hell of an apology.  And he’d said that it was with his editor – she knows that, she just read all the comments.  So it’s real.  It’s a _real_ book.  Really going to be published.  It’s not another lie to deceive her into thinking that he’s apologising when he’s not. 

She looks up at him, desperately trying to control her emotions – and from his face, failing miserably. “You wrote her for me?”  There’s a tremor in her voice.  He can only nod.  “Rick…”

His heart lifts.  She hasn’t used his name once since she discovered the truth: only the contemptuous _Richard Castle_.  Her eyes are liquid.  He dares to take a step towards her, heedless of the shards and spilt coffee.

“Rick,” he repeats.  “Always Rick for you,” and takes another step to close arms around her and pray to all the angels that she’ll accept it.

His arms close around her and for the first time in over a week she feels _right_.  Her hand creeps up to his shoulder, her head rests on the other one, and his embrace tightens.  She curls in against his warmth.

“You got her just right,” she says.  “That’s how she was.”  She sniffs, and nestles closer.  “That’s just how I remember her.”

He pets her hair, smoothing it down.  “I just listened.  She – you made her real.  She’s there in your memories, and it came out when you talked.  She was right there.”

“She’s right there.  In the pages.”  She sniffs damply.  “Everything.  How I felt, how I feel, how she was.”

“Is.”

“Huh?”

“Is.  She’s alive in your memories.  Is.” 

Her hand tightens on his shoulder.  He realises that she’s weeping, silent and still, trying not to let him notice.  He goes along with her pretence, and continues to stroke her hair and hold her close.  Moving might break the moment, and they need this moment.

Eventually, she lifts from his shoulder.  “You brought her back.”  She meets his eyes.  “I wouldn’t have believed it if you’d said it.”  Castle winces.  “But you did.  You made her real again.”  She blinks several times.  “Thank you.”

Quiet, comfortable serenity envelops them, for a short time.  After a while, however, Beckett becomes aware, again, of her dishevelled state.

“I ought to get home,” she murmurs.  A flicker of disappointment runs over Rick’s face.  “I could really use a wash and clean clothes, and maybe a few hours’ sleep.”  She bites her lip nervously.  “We could get dinner, later?”

His face clears instantly.  “Remy’s?” he bounces.  “And this time, it’s my treat.”  Her mouth opens.  “No, no, no.  Date.  I suggested Remy’s, so I get to take you.”

“I invited you for dinner first.”

“I said where.  So it’s my invitation.”

She grumbles indeterminately.  This is a fight she clearly isn’t going to win.  “My turn next time,” she insists.

“Okay.  Remy’s.  Six-thirty?”

“Yep.”

But she doesn’t move out of his arms just yet.  Instead, the hand on his shoulder becomes a hand tracing his jaw and then cheek; and then becomes a hand bringing his head to hers; which then becomes a delicate, half-shy kiss.

And then she steps away and collects her purse and departs, leaving Castle to survey the smashed mug and puddled coffee and then start to wipe up the floor with no unhappiness at all.


	16. Chapter 16

Beckett prepares carefully for their dinner.  A hot shower and several hours sleep has improved matters enormously, but now she needs to ensure that she can make her own feelings clear.  The first thought she’d had when she woke had been of Rick’s words: _I was falling in love with you right then_.  They’d clasped themselves around her heart, warming her soul.  She can’t, now, doubt that Rick Rodgers, the man she’d – oh, admit it already – fallen in love with, is the real man.  No PR construct, arrogant and cocky, could have written the depth of emotion that he had written; no shallow celebrity could hear another’s pain and loss and understand it

Her thinking continues until it’s time to leave.  She wants to be there first: stupidly, nervously, she wants to have her back to the wall of their booth.  _Their_ booth?  She guesses so: it had been hers, first: that half-hidden place, but then…they’d shared it and it had been theirs.  She hasn’t been to Remy’s since… the truth had been revealed.

She does indeed arrive first: tucks herself into the booth with her back to the wall and waits, trying not to fidget.  The server takes her order for milkshake, and she waits.  A little pile of shredded serviette becomes a larger pile.  Rick hasn’t arrived.

She checks her phone.  No messages.  Her face falls – and then she remembers that she’d blocked his number and she’d forgotten to unblock it.  Frantically, she taps at it.

Not ten seconds after she’s unblocked his number, a text from Rick pops up.  _Are you getting these? Kate, why aren’t you answering?_  

She taps back immediately.  _Forgot to unblock.  Here.  K._

_There asap. R._

She relaxes, and sips her milkshake. 

A few moments later Rick rushes in.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurts.  “There was an accident and all the roads are jammed and I couldn’t get through and I thought you’d changed your mind and” –

“No,” Beckett says, blushing uncomfortably.  “I forgot that I hadn’t unblocked your number and I thought you had changed your mind because you weren’t here and hadn’t called.”

Rick picks up her restless, fretful hand, enclosing her fingers and stilling them.  “I’m here now,” he says reassuringly.  The tips of her fingers curl around to settle on the back of his hand.  His thumb strokes the back of hers.  “Are you okay?”

“Are you?”

He smiles, beautifully.  “Yeah.  You’re here.”  He curls his free arm round her shoulders and settles himself about her.  “There.  Right where I like you.”

“I like being here,” she murmurs, a little bashful.

“Good.”

A server peers round.

“Food?” Beckett ventures.

“Yep.”

Orders are given. The server disappears, and Rick takes instant advantage to ensure that Beckett is enveloped.  She wriggles slightly, mostly to ensure she can breathe.

“Er…” she starts uncertainly, when more drinks have arrived.

“Mm?”

“Are we” – she cringes – “okay?”

“Uh?”

“I mean…” she stops. 

“Mm?”

She shrugs, rather hopelessly.  Actually saying something is much harder in person than it had been in her head.

“I mean I ditched you but here you are and I… and you… and I think I’m in love with you too,” she rushes out on one babbled breath and then tries to hide in the corner.

Castle stares at Kate, who is doing an excellent impression of a pangolin: curled tightly with armoured defences on full display.  He tries to unfurl her: however, he might be bigger but she is definitely more skilled in furling.  Eventually, after a rather unedifying effort, he simply resettles his arm round her, and tuts annoyingly.

“Out you come,” he flirts.  “You can’t say something like that and then hide.  Especially when we haven’t had dinner yet, and I’m hungry.”

Kate peeps up from under those astonishingly long, seductive lashes.  She looks entirely terrified.  There’s only one thing to be done.

“What – mmmmfffff.”

Well, that worked.  Of course, there is no possible universe in which kissing Kate _wouldn’t_ be great, but working – a little more chancy.  Here and now, though, it’s working.  More importantly, she’s kissing him back, so it’s – they’re – _definitely_ okay.

“What was that?”

“A kiss,” he points out happily.  “Want another?  Kisses are good for you.”

“I was rapidly acquiring the impression that you thought kisses were good for _you_ ,” Kate snarks, very dryly indeed.

Rick smirks.  “You’re definitely okay.  You’re snarking.”  She adds a glare, and the smirk widens.  “And a glare.  All we need is – and there’s the eyeroll.  Trifecta!  I win.”

“You win?” she squawks. 

“Yep.  I win.”

Before that can develop into the argument which is quite clearly approaching, their burgers arrive and Kate, as ever, digs straight in.  Food trumps arguing, and it also seems to have caused her to forget her admission.  Or maybe that was the kiss.

“When did you last eat?” Castle asks.

“Yesterday,” she says, swallowing a mouthful of burger, and smiles mischievously at him.  “You didn’t offer me any dinner and I didn’t get time to try the canapes.”

“They were good.  Especially the little fishy ones.  You should have tried them.”

Kate’s eyebrow rises in a familiarly boggled fashion.  “When?”

Castle smiles back equally mischievously.  “If you hadn’t been ripping Roy a new one…” he entices.

“Montgomery had no right to drag me to that function” –

“But if he hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here,” he says, unanswerably.  Kate glares at him.  “Do you want dessert?” he adds.

She rolls her eyes again.  “Yeah.  Please.”

Dessert appears, and is eaten.  Coffee appears, and is drunk.  In that time, Castle doesn’t let go of Kate for a moment.  In all that time, he wants to yell _She loves me too!_ to the whole of Remy’s and indeed the whole of Manhattan.

However, finally it’s time to go.  Kate, nestled into the crook of his arm, her usual quiet self: the serenity he’d become used to over the preceding weeks.  Mostly.  There’s still a tightness across her shoulders, rigidity in her spine.  Belatedly, it occurs to him that she’s still scared; still afraid that they’re broken; still unsure.

“We’re okay,” he says.  “I should’ve told you, you should’ve listened.”

“But I didn’t.  I didn’t want to talk to you, or listen to you.”

“You did, though.  You read it.  Same thing.” It doesn’t seem to be helping.  In fact, it’s actively not helping.  He pulls her back closer.  “Look, just ‘cause they’re both me doesn’t make a difference.”  She startles.  Aha.  He’s hit it.  “When I was with you it was just me.  There’s only one me, and all of him wants you.  Detective Kate Beckett, Twelfth Precinct.”  He gulps.  “I just want you.”

“I…” It’s her turn to stop, and swallow.  “I didn’t like Richard Castle.”  She stops again, and doesn’t restart for a long, tense moment.  “I liked” – another swallow, and then a cannon-fire of words – “I _fell in love with_ Rick Rodgers.  I _hated_ Richard Castle.  How’s this ever going to work if I can’t like both of you?”

Castle abruptly decides that this is a conversation best _not_ held walking down the street, whistles down a taxi, puts them both into it and gives Kate’s address. 

“Uh?”

“Let’s talk at yours, not in the street – and before you ask, my mother and daughter are home and I really, really don’t need them interfering so we can’t go back to mine.”

“Uh?”

“Kate, we have to talk about this.  I just don’t want to do it on the sidewalk – do you?”

“No…”

“Right.  So let’s go somewhere to fix it in private.”

Fortunately the taxi is brisk, since Kate is staring into space with the mien of a stunned sow and no intelligible words at all.  Castle pays, tows her out, nudges her until she opens the door of her building, nudges some more until she opens the door of her apartment, and finally shuts the door behind them.

“Coffee,” he says firmly.

The magic word kick-starts her intelligence.

“Yes.”  She goes to her kitchen and switches on the kettle.  Castle follows, and when she’s finished finding cups, coffee and creamer, wraps his arms around her waist to turn her around and into him.

“There.  That’s better.”  He strokes up and down her back: large warm hands soothing away the knots and tension, petting until the coffee can be made and taken to her couch.

“I know you didn’t like Richard Castle.  You told me.  Several dozen times over.  What I never got the chance to tell you was that I invented him to deal with all the PR and parties.  I just wanted to write.  But there’s all the publicity and the pressure and everyone wanting a piece of you so I invented this guy who loved all of that and” –

“And he took over,” she says.

He gapes at her.  “How did you know?”

“I – I don’t know how you saw it but you did because it’s in there – I did the same.  To cope with my mother dying.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.  Till I didn’t need it any more.  Mostly.”

“Okay.  So anyway, I invented Richard Castle, celebrity playboy.  And gradually he took over, like you said.  And… well… I liked it.  Lots.  Everyone loved him.  He – _I_ – was popular, and he was easy to be.”  He sips his coffee.  “And then I lost my book and I couldn’t write and… I went out and there you were in that bar and suddenly I didn’t want the _expectation_ any more.  I just wanted to be able to be me and not have to play up to the personality or pretend.  And you let me.”  He drinks some more coffee, which doesn’t help the next bit.  “And then I kissed you, or you kissed me, and you’d just told me you hated him – me – whoever – and I couldn’t lose you.”  His head hangs.  “I knew I should tell you, but I couldn’t.  And you didn’t want to talk to him.  Me.  No matter how I tried.”

“He was an arrogant idiot who hit on me.  And then hit on the waitress.”

“I didn’t!”

“It looked like it.”

“Sure it did.  But I didn’t.  I tipped her and chatted.  Then I flirted with the women who hit on me, because otherwise they get pushy and they start trouble rather than leaving me alone, and then I went home all on my own.  But I didn’t think you’d be as upset as you were because I didn’t know why it all mattered.  Now I do.”

Kate wriggles uncomfortably.  “He was pushy.  I liked you because you didn’t hit on me.  You backed off.  Didn’t expect anything.”  Suddenly she grins up at him.  “Except all those answers.”

Castle grins back.  “Research.  I always do my research, really thoroughly.”

“I noticed,” comes back, desert-dry.

“You weren’t research, though,” he adds much more seriously.  “I never asked you about your mom.”

“No.”  It’s thoughtful.  “No, you never did.”  She snuggles right up into him, coffee cup safely on the table, drained.  “If you’d only been Richard Castle, you would have.  You absolutely would have.” 

“Probably,” he admits.

“So… you’re more than that.  Rick.”  She reaches for him, pulls his head firmly down, and kisses him hard.  “You’re still Rick Rodgers.”  Another firm kiss.  “But Richard Castle is still a pain, so don’t bring him here.”

“Never.”  He plants a hard kiss of his own on her smiling lips.  “Never, ever.”

“Never,” she affirms.  “Because” – her head ducks away so he can’t see her face, hidden against his chest – “he took my mother away.  _You_ brought her back.”

“In the book?”

“Not just there.  You – she could always find joy in the little victories, or in the small things.  Like you.”

Castle tips her chin so he can see her glistening eyes.  “Even in the little things, there’s always a reason to be joyful.  Always something to make you happy.”  He embraces her, pulling her into his lap, and then turning her so that he can kiss her softly, and then harder, response building in the clutch of her hands and press of her tongue against his.  “You make me happy.”

“You too,” she murmurs into his cheek.

He slides his hand into the soft hair at the back of her head, kissing her again: hard, possessive hands holding her to him; hers gripping him.  He explores, relearning her taste, her touch against him, the scent of her hair and the soft, smooth skin beneath his fingers.  Shortly, shirts fall away, and skin meets skin – and it ignites once more.

Castle surges off the couch, taking Kate with him and carrying her to her bedroom because he can’t bear to let her lose contact with him for an instant.  He lays her out on her bed as if she were made of the finest porcelain: simply appreciating her.  Her eyes wander over him, the gold flecks sparking hotly, a sensuous smile spreading across her mouth, as she nibbles provocatively on her lower lip. 

She really shouldn’t do that, because she knows exactly what it does to Rick, but… she nibbles again.  Rick falls on to the bed, frantically toeing off his shoes (hers fell off on the way) and kissing her like there’s no tomorrow, big body covering her and pressing down, bare chest hot against her skin, hasty hands undoing her pants, pushing them down; pushing his down. 

She moves slightly to accommodate the width of his thighs, to feel the hot pressure just where she wants it, to arch up slightly and rub against him and set spark to fuse.  He gasps, and takes her mouth again, and swells and fills against the welcoming warmth.  Her hands slide over his back, lightly scraping, reach the edge of his boxers and peel them downwards from him as far as she can reach, releasing him to her avid, elegantly wicked fingers.  Gasp becomes groan, and then he plunders her mouth and starts to use his own diabolical hands to unclip her bra and discard it, then palm the soft curves of her breasts and tease the erect nipples till she whimpers his name and her nails bite into his back and he moves lower.

She squirms and giggles – _giggles_ – and squeaks.  “That _tickles_ , you rat.  Stoppit.”

“Can’t.”  He smirks up her torso.  “It’s the stubble.”  He rubs it over her stomach, gently, and she wriggles again.  He moves a little further south, and she wriggles more.

“Stubble?” she pants.

“Yep.”

“That – _oh_ – part of the persona?”

“Only if it has to be,” he grimaces, “but actually it happens by now unless I shave again,” and he slides a little so the stubble reaches some very sensitive areas indeed. 

“You can – _ohhhhh_ – keep that bit for here _ohhhhh_.”

He’s rolling off her panties now, and _oh God yes there_ stubble certainly has its good points.

“Okay,” he agrees amiably, and then stops talking altogether because his mouth and _oh God do that again_ tongue are otherwise engaged in a very different conversation in which she is providing no coherent answers whatsoever while making an awful lot of noise.

“ _Rick_!”  She spasms helplessly and falls back, limp.  He slithers up the bed and smiles very smugly.

“You liked that.”  She can’t answer.  Her head may have fallen off.  She manages a faint noise of vague agreement.  “You should let me do that more.”

“Uh,” she emits.

“Good.  You agree.”

Did she?  Oh.  Yes.  More.  Yes.  But right now, just cuddle her.  She’ll worry about _more_ when she can feel her fingers.  She makes an enormous effort and moves a whole inch towards his wide, warm chest.  “Mine,” she breathes, and relaxes against him.

Castle cuddles his thoroughly sated Kate, delighted to have her back exactly where she should be, in bed with him.  He nuzzles affectionate kisses into her hair, and lets her know just how pleased he is to be there with her.  After a moment or two, she wiggles seductively.  How nice.  She’s ready to play some more.

He glides a hand over her stomach and upward, cupping a soft curve and slipping his thumb over her nipple.  She sighs, and curves into his touch as his other hand starts at the same point but moves downward, sliding between her legs and cupping there, not – yet – moving.  Another sigh, and she moves to try to bring his lower hand more firmly against her.  Not yet.  He shifts one broad finger, ghosting it against the wet heat.  Sigh becomes a shiver, and she opens a little to allow him wider access: slips up his body to bring hard weight into the soft damp cleft, slides against him so that he catches breath in turn.

“You like that,” she murmurs, and brings fingers to him to find out if he likes that too, guiding him over her.  He does like it.  _So_ much.  But he also likes turning her to a hot mess of lust and – she _said_ it – love, and so he wickedly flexes his fingertips and paints her nerves with her own desire and oh, worked up, blissed out, desperately writhing Kate is just so utterly perfect and all his and _then_ he pushes into her and claims her as she surrounds him and moves with him and then there’s only the explosion and hot, sweet release and Kate.

“Mine,” he rasps, and pulls her in to cage her against him.  “My Kate.”

She turns over within his arms and drapes herself across him, head over his heart.  “Mine,” she says decisively, nestling in comfortably.

“That too.”  He smooths down her back, petting without intent.  “Just us.  Rick and Kate.”

“Mm.”

Nothing happens for a little while.  Castle pets affectionately, Kate stays curled up into him, stroking his flank occasionally.  An air of pleased contentment suffuses the room.

“Why _did_ you buy my book?” Castle asks suddenly.

“Huh?”

“Why did you buy my book?  I mean, you never did tell me why, or why you were at that fundraiser at all.  You told me about your mother” – his tones are soft, sympathetic – “but why there?  Why not just go to a signing?”

“Dad.”

“Uh?”

“AA.  We both try to support it.  And it was your books that Mom loved so that was double reasons.”  Her head is buried in his chest. “Dad” – she swallows painfully – “He’s been dry five years now.”

“I get it.”

“That’s why I told you to make a donation when I gave you the book back.  I didn’t want paid for it.”

“Never thought you did.”  She relapses on to his chest and snuggles back in.  “So you wanted a signed set of books so you could feel closer to your mom?”

“Yes,” she mutters.  “Silly.”

“Not silly.  But” – he hesitates, and Kate hums questioningly against his ribs – “um… if you still wanted them you could have them.”  She squeaks.  “I could…um… just give you them.  Signed.  If you wanted, that is.  You might not want them because you don’t like him…um…me him…but if you did I could and it wouldn’t take long but if you don’t just say and I’ll never mention it again and” –

“Yes.”

“It’s really up to you so – what?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?” he says, like a small child.  “Promise you’ll let me?”

“I said so already.”  But her eyes are soft and a little liquid and she’s totally lax and unguarded.

Suddenly she grins evilly.  “After all, you need to make it up to me.  I bought a book of yours that was not for sale.”

**_Fin._ **


End file.
